Love Will Still Remain
by Sparks
Summary: Meg fires the gun, but the bullet doesn't hit Christine – and so everything changes. Widowed, left with her son and the man she has always loved, Christine finally has a chance of finding happiness.  ETA: changed category from LND to PotO
1. Chapter 1

Title: Love Will Still Remain

Rating: M

Word count: ~48,500 in total.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' or 'Love Never Dies' does not belong to me.

Notes: This was a work of love. I saw Love Never Dies three times in the West End, and I loved it. I'm aware this makes me one of a minority. It was a tragedy, and people went into it expecting more high romance, I think. But I loved it: the music, the staging, the actors and the story. Except, obviously, I want a happy ending for these two, so I proceeded to attempt to write one.

Notes 2: In my head as I wrote this, I saw Erik as played by Ramin Karimloo, and Christine as played by Sierra Boggess. Ramin was the first Phantom I ever saw in the West End, and the only Phantom I saw in Love Never Dies. I saw Sierra in Love Never Dies as well.

Summary: Meg fires the gun, but the bullet doesn't hit Christine – and so everything changes. Widowed, left with her son and the man she has always loved, Christine finally has a chance of finding happiness.

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><p>"Christine, Christine, always Christine!"<p>

A gunshot. A yell. A body dropped to the ground.

Christine gasped, hand at her mouth, and stared down at the man on the ground before her. Meg gave a screech and waved her arm again but Erik was too quick for her, wrestled the gun from her hand and flung it out into the ocean.

Gustave screamed. Christine dropped to her knees, put her hands over the wound and pressed down.

"Don't look, Gustave," she commanded, but Gustave wasn't listening to her – he joined her, kneeling, at Raoul's side. "Raoul," she said, "Raoul, what are you doing here? I thought you'd gone." His blood was warm beneath her fingers – too much blood, far too much of it.

"Had to – had to say goodbye to Gustave," said Raoul, and he lifted a hand to touch Gustave's cheek but couldn't quite manage it. "Christine…" His hand came to rest on hers. "Stop."

"No," she snapped, and realised she was crying. "Gustave, _don__'__t __look!_"

"Christine." Erik had come to kneel beside her, and now he lifted her hands away from her husband's wound. "It's too late. I'm sorry." Christine shook her head, swiped at her wet cheeks angrily but only smeared blood over herself. She wanted to get Gustave away – she knew what it was like, watching a father die, and she didn't want him to see that – but all she could do was kneel and watch, helpless, as Raoul bled out in front of her.

"Gustave," said Raoul, and Gustave knelt forwards, took Raoul's hand. He was crying too, he looked terrified. "Gustave, it's alright," Raoul said, struggling now against the pain. "It's alright. I have to tell you…" He broke off, gasping, and Christine took off her coat, bundled it up and gently lifted his head to rest on it.

"Don't," she said. "Don't try to talk." But Raoul shook his head, clutched Gustave's hand tightly and looked up at him.

"I love you," he said, and Gustave nodded, biting his lip hard as if to keep himself from screaming. "I'm so-sorry I haven't been a better…father to you." He groaned, gasped, and Christine felt Erik move closer to her, felt him put his arm around her in comfort. "I h-have to tell you…"

Erik's fingers tightened on Christine's shoulder; Christine choked back a sob. This wasn't how she'd wanted to tell Gustave, how she'd wanted to break the news to him that his father _wasn__'__t_ his father, that instead he really belonged to a stranger he'd only met the day before.

Raoul was still bleeding, but it was coming slower now, and she was sure that was a bad sign.

"He – he is your father," said Raoul, his voice barely a whisper now. Gustave's eyes were wide; he looked up at Erik, turned to Christine with a stunned expression. "Y-your real f-father," Raoul continued, and Christine closed her eyes, sagged against Erik. "I'm…" Raoul trailed off, his breathing ragged, and Christine opened her eyes again and bent over him, anguished at his pain.

"Raoul, just rest," she urged. "Please, don't…"

But Raoul looked past her, looked up at Erik. "Take care of them," he said, an order more than a request, and Erik nodded.

"I will," he said, and Christine looked at him, looked at the man in the mask who was still, after so many years, so vitally important to her. So much a part of her life in a way that Raoul had never been, could never have been. "Monsieur, I apologise. I never meant for this to happen."

Raoul gave a kind of choking laugh, and Christine almost flinched. "I know," he said after a moment. "I know. But it seems…the rules have changed." He looked at Christine then, looked at her with unfocused eyes, and she blinked away tears. "Christine…forgive me…"

"There's nothing to forgive," she told him. "I am so sorry, Raoul."

"Just…be happy," he murmured, and closed his eyes. "He'll make you happy."

"Raoul. Raoul!" She reached out and shook him a little – hands sticky with his blood, she grasped his coat and shook him. But he was gone. His head slumped to one side on her coat, his eyes were half-closed – she reached out and closed them, left red marks on his eyelids. Gustave was crying, loud messy sobs that echoed across the pier, and somewhere behind her Meg was crying too.

Christine closed her eyes, folded her hands together and prayed. Erik's arm was warm around her, solid and real, and in a moment she would turn to him, would try to let go of her guilt and talk to him and their son, but now she prayed that Raoul would find rest in Heaven as he had never been able to on Earth.

"Mother?"

Christine opened her eyes, looked at her son, and held out her arms. He scrambled towards her, almost knocking her over in his haste, and she hugged him, rocked him a little in her lap as if he were a younger child.

"It's going to be alright, Gustave," she assured him. "I promise. I'll make it alright." He hid his face against her and she smoothed his hair, looked up at Erik. "It's going to be alright," she repeated, and wasn't really sure whether she was saying it to Erik or Gustave. Erik nodded at her, touched a hand to her cheek and then stood up, turned to deal with the approaching policemen.

"Mother," said Gustave at last, his voice choked with tears, "is it true? Is – is Mister Y my father?"

"Yes, Gustave," said Christine. She'd lied to him every day, by word and action, for his entire life. It was almost a relief that she no longer had to do so – and she hated herself for thinking that, for feeling relieved when her husband was dead beside her, but she couldn't help it. "Yes. He is your father."

Gustave pulled away from her a little, enough to wipe his cheeks and look up at her. "Is that why Father – why he never –"

"Gustave, Raoul loved you very much," said Christine firmly. "He was your father in every way that matters. I don't want you to ever think otherwise." Gustave nodded slowly, wrapped his arms about himself. He looked lost, and Christine couldn't blame him. She took a deep breath and then eased him off her lap. "Come on, Gustave," she said, standing up and holding her hands out to him. "Come away from…from…" The words caught in her throat.

"Come away," said Erik, who had returned without her realising. He was watching them with something like sympathy, and Christine wanted to reach out to him, wanted him to hold her and promise he would never leave her again.

Gustave stood up, glanced back down at his father's body and gave a shuddering sigh. Then he turned to Erik, looked up at the man he now knew to be his father, and held out his arms. Erik looked at Christine, startled, but she could do nothing but offer him a nod and a weak smile. A moment passed, and Gustave started dropping his arms, disappointed.

But then Erik reached out and picked up his son, lifted him easily into his arms and held him close. Gustave's legs wrapped around his waist, his arms went about Erik's neck, embracing his father as naturally as if he'd been doing it all his life.

Christine wanted to cry again. But a policeman had approached, offered her a blanket and she wrapped it around herself, cold without the coat that still lay bundled under Raoul's head.

"I'm sorry, ma'am," the man said, "but I need to ask you some questions." He gave her what was clearly meant to be a reassuring smile. "Just routine."

"Yes, alright." Christine looked again at Gustave and Erik; they were still and silent, Gustave's head resting on Erik's shoulder. "Alright," she said again, and let the policeman draw her a few steps away.

"I'm sorry for your loss, ma'am," he said. "I'm Sergeant Gellar. Can you tell me what happened?" He pulled a small notebook from his pocket, held a pencil to take down notes.

Christine inhaled, tasted the salty air, and let her breath out slowly. "I had finished performing," she said slowly. "At Mister Y's theatre, in the park. I went to my dressing room. I…" She paused, glanced back at Erik and Gustave. "My husband had left a note," she said, and flushed at the way Gellar looked at her. "Mister Y is a very old friend," she explained. "Raoul wished to give us some time to become reacquainted, and for Erik – Mister Y, I mean – to know Gustave. They have never met."

Gellar nodded, although she could see his suspicions were not quite appeased. "Alright," he said. "What happened then?"

"Gustave wasn't in my dressing room." Christine had to look at him again, just to reassure herself that he was alright, unharmed. "I couldn't find him. He was supposed to wait for me, but…"

"Mister Y said one of his…associates saw Miss Giry taking your son out of the theatre," said Gellar, consulting a small notepad. "We'll take a statement from her later."

Christine pulled the blanket tighter around herself. "We tried to follow them," she said quietly, "but it was crowded. Eventually we caught up with them here. Meg…she had a gun." She closed her eyes for a moment, unable to banish the vision of Meg holding a gun, grasping her child tight and threatening to kill him.

"It's alright," said Gellar. "Take your time."

"I don't know where Raoul came from," Christine said at last. "Meg was…she seemed…" She hesitated to say it, decided after a moment that she couldn't. "She shot at me," she said instead. "But Raoul came from nowhere, he stepped between us and she shot him."

Gellar looked at her for a long moment, and then he nodded. "Alright, ma'am. That's very helpful. I'll need to speak to this…Miss Fleck…but it all seems straightforward." He gestured towards the other policemen. "We've arrested Miss Giry. Seems likely she'll go to the sanatorium after the trial." He paused. "Ma'am, you will need to testify. I understand you were meant to be returning to France in a few days?"

"Yes." Christine pressed a hand to her head, trying to recollect their original plans. "We were to leave next week. I wanted Gustave to see something of New York. This might be his only chance, we have never travelled out of Europe before."

"I'll have to ask you to change those plans, ma'am," said Gellar. "I can contact the shipping line for you, explain the circumstances. They should change your tickets for a later date."

"I can see to that," said Erik. Christine started; she had not heard Erik approach. He still held Gustave in his arms, and she wanted to smile but was very aware of Gellar's judgemental look. "The Comtesse de Chagny is here as my guest," Erik continued, and looked at her. "Christine, you are, of course, both welcome to remain in my hotel," he told her. "And in fact I think we should return, if the Sergeant is finished." He indicated the boy in his arms, and Christine nodded at once.

"Yes," she agreed. "Sergeant, my son is very distressed. And it's late." She looked back at Gellar. "Perhaps if you have more questions we could meet tomorrow. I would like to take my son…away from here."

Gellar looked at the three of them for a moment, and then he nodded. "Alright, ma'am. I'll come by the hotel tomorrow. Say around ten?" He pocketed his notebook. "We'll, uh…we'll take your husband's body to the morgue. We can talk about arrangements tomorrow." He nodded again, tipped his hat, and returned to his colleagues.

"Mother, I want to go home," said Gustave then, and he sounded exhausted, as exhausted as she had ever seen him. She reached out, smoothed his hair, brushed her fingers over Erik's hand and watched as he lifted his head slightly to look at her.

"I know, darling," she said. "I know."

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><p>This fic is complete, and a new chapter will be posted every day.<p> 


	2. Chapter 2

Title: Love Will Still Remain

Rating: M

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' or 'Love Never Dies' does not belong to me.

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><p>Christine woke suddenly, startled by something into wakefulness. The room was quiet; Gustave was a warm, heavy weight at her side, his breathing regular and familiar. Daylight shone through the window – she'd forgotten to draw the curtains last night, she realised.<p>

She closed her eyes for a moment but the vision of Raoul's dead body made her open them again, stare up at the ceiling in an attempt to erase it from her mind. Nausea rose in her stomach and she measured her breathing, in and out, to keep from wanting to vomit. It didn't work; she eased herself away from Gustave, got up from the bed and went into the bathroom, knelt before the toilet and threw up.

When she was finished, she rinsed her mouth and washed her face, and returned to the bedroom. Gustave had rolled over into the space she had vacated, perhaps seeking her warmth still, and she was loathe to wake him. He'd been so scared the night before, so unwilling to be parted from her, that she'd allowed him to join her in her bed – in the bed that she and Raoul had shared for two nights.

Christine could admit to herself that she hadn't wanted to be alone, hadn't wanted to face what being alone meant. That she was a widow now, that she would be alone in bed for every night now.

Except…there was Erik. And guilt sprang up at that thought, at the terrible thought that she might have Erik now, that Erik might still want her. She didn't know what she would have done, if Raoul hadn't returned, if Meg hadn't kidnapped her son, but she knew what Erik had hoped. She knew what she herself had wished for, so many times over the years, whilst still hating herself for her unfaithful thoughts.

She had never been the wife Raoul had wanted; but then he had never been the husband she wanted. They had been foolish children, and she had naively assumed that he would make her happy, that his childish devotion would be enough for them both.

Christine shook her head. It would do no good to dwell on those thoughts now. She went to the wardrobe, found her dressing robe and wrapped it over her nightdress. Usually meticulous in her appearance, now she simply wanted to be tidy and decent before leaving the bedroom. She could call for her maid, but dressing would disturb Gustave and she was so loathe to do that.

But she would call for breakfast, for Gustave if not for herself, and perhaps Erik…

She hoped he would be waiting for her, in the sitting room of the suite. He'd said he would be there when she awoke, but she couldn't help being afraid that he had left.

She drew the curtains, closing out the daylight to let Gustave sleep as long as he needed to, and then she opened the bedroom door, stepped into the sitting room and closed the door quietly behind her.

Erik was there, sitting in an armchair, a book in his hands but his attention focused solely on her.

Christine took a step towards him, and another, and then he had risen, crossed the room to her with quick steps, and gathered her into his arms. She wouldn't cry, she told herself, not now, but tears welled in her eyes anyway, and she pressed her face to Erik's chest, lifted her arms around his neck and clung to him.

When at last Christine raised her head to look at him, she found she couldn't find words to speak. Grief closed her throat, grief and guilt because she couldn't deny the happiness she felt at being so close to Erik once more.

Erik shook his head slightly, as if he knew what she was thinking, and he pressed a chaste kiss to her forehead.

"How did you sleep?" he asked her. "And Gustave?"

Christine swallowed against the lump, offered him a faint smile. "I…slept. Gustave is still asleep. I didn't want to wake him, it was so late when he…" Her voice dried up again, and she sighed, tried again. "He should sleep," she said, and Erik nodded.

"Of course," he agreed. For a moment he seemed hesitant, uncharacteristically so, and then he led her over to the couch and gently urged her to sit. "I suspect you won't care for breakfast," he said, and Christine, remembering her nausea, nodded agreement. "Sergeant Gellar sent a message, he will be here at ten-thirty. He wants to speak to Gustave."

"Yes," said Christine softly, "I thought he would." She glanced at the bedroom door, listened for any sign that her son's sleep was disturbed, and then caught Erik looking at her with a strange expression. Her cheeks warmed, she looked away, almost embarrassed but without knowing why.

"Christine," said Erik, and then he paused again, sat next to her on the couch and reached for her hand. "I will not lie to you," he said, voice low, his thumb brushing across the back of her hand. "I grieve that you and Gustave are in pain, but I cannot deny that my hope has been that you would stay with me."

She had known it, of course – known his love and desire for her had not wavered with ten years' distance, had known that _something_ had passed between he and Raoul, known that Erik would want to know his son. But hearing him speak it so plainly…

And Raoul was dead. Her husband was dead. And she had been so unfaithful to him, in so many ways. So far from the wife he had wanted, the wife he had deserved – and now her thoughts were consumed with Erik, her heart swelled with the knowledge that he loved her still and wouldn't leave her this time.

She turned her hand, entwined her fingers with his.

"I know," she said, and couldn't offer him more reassurance. "I know." She looked up at him, the handsome features and the white mask that concealed the deformity that had so scared her, so many years ago when she had been a sheltered little girl living in a world where beauty was prized and idealised.

She hoped that Gustave would learn to understand, learn to accept, as she had. Far too late, but she had learned that lesson.

"Raoul is dead," she said, and had to close her eyes for a moment, had to force herself to keep breathing at the finality of her own words. "I can't…I…not yet, Erik." He was silent, and she looked at him again, lifted their joined hands and pressed a kiss to his knuckles. "Not yet," she said again, willing him to see the promise in what she couldn't say.

At last he smiled, just a little, enough to bring warmth to his face. "That is more hope than I have dared to have," he said. "I can be patient." His mouth twisted, bitter for a moment, and she thought of ten long years. And then the expression was gone, as quickly as if it had never been there. "You should try to eat something," he told her. "You haven't had anything since before the performance last night."

She sighed, shook her head. "I can't face eating," she said. "Not right now. But Gustave will be hungry when he wakes." Erik looked at her, his thoughts plain to see, and she squeezed his hand. "You have always been so concerned over my health," she said softly. "I've never deserved you." He frowned, opened his mouth to speak – but the bedroom door swung open to reveal Gustave, rubbing at his eye with one hand.

"Mother," he said plaintively, "you weren't there."

"I hoped you would sleep longer, Gustave," she said, and held her free hand out to him. Gustave came across the room, shuffling a little in his sleepiness, and stood before them, glancing between them and down at their joined hands. Christine let him look for a moment, and then she reached out and pulled him closer so she could embrace him. She needed her child, needed to reassure herself that he was safe and well.

As well as he could be.

"Good morning, Gustave," said Erik in greeting. To Christine, he seemed hesitant once more, and she could hardly blame him after Gustave's reaction – was it only yesterday? So much had happened since.

Gustave fidgeted for a moment and then clasped his hands together and looked at Erik. "I – I'm sorry," he said, quiet but penitent. "About the other day. I was surprised. I shouldn't have screamed."

Erik stared at him, and it took Christine a few moments to collect herself and give Gustave an approving smile. She'd spoken to him, of course – reminded him that although Erik's face was disfigured, he had shown Gustave nothing but kindness, and reminded him too that she had not raised him to value only appearances. But she hadn't expected him to apologise without prompting; he was, after all, still a child.

At last Erik cleared his throat, glanced away and then looked back at his son. "Thank you," he muttered, and was silent once more.

"Mother, what happens today?" Gustave asked then, and Christine let go of Erik's hand, stood up and rested her hands on Gustave's shoulders.

"The police want to speak with you," she said. "But I will be here. All you have to do is tell them what happened." Gustave nodded, biting his lip. "I promise, it will be alright," Christine said, and pressed a kiss to his forehead. "Now," she continued, "go and get dressed, and then you can have breakfast."

"Alright," Gustave agreed, and he gave her a brief, tight hug before going to the small second bedroom. He paused in the doorway, turned to look at her. "Mother – you're not going anywhere, are you?" Christine shook her head. "Good," he said, and disappeared into the bedroom, shutting the door behind him.

"He seems anxious," said Erik, rising to stand with her, a warm presence at her side.

"Yes," she agreed. She turned to look at him, suddenly couldn't resist the temptation to rise up onto her toes and press a kiss to his mouth. She retreated before he could begin to react, feeling her cheeks flush at the way he stared at her. "I must dress," she said, an excuse to leave his presence for a few minutes. "If Gustave is dressed before I finish, would you –"

"I will reassure him," Erik nodded. "Shall I call for breakfast?"

"Yes – just for Gustave," she cautioned. "I don't think I can eat anything." Erik's mouth twisted but he nodded acquiescence and said nothing more as she returned to the bedroom, closing the door behind her.

She leaned against it for a moment, closed her eyes and breathed. She should not have kissed him, she knew. Not yet, not now. Not when Raoul's clothing hung in the wardrobe and his body was barely cold in the morgue.

Wretched and guilt-ridden, Christine went to the wardrobe and began to prepare herself for the day.


	3. Chapter 3

Title: Love Will Still Remain

Rating: M

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' or 'Love Never Dies' does not belong to me.

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><p>"Take him out," Christine said to him, almost begging. She looked pale and worn, far too tired to be dealing with any of the day's affairs. "He needs distraction."<p>

Erik glanced at Gustave, seated at the piano but not playing. The boy looked just as pale as his mother, and had been listless since the police sergeant had been to question him. Christine had tried to tempt him with books and games, but nothing had enticed him from his misery.

"He won't want to leave you," he said, absolutely certain of it given Gustave's behaviour so far this morning. But he looked at Christine, saw how exhausted she was, and he couldn't refuse to try, at least.

He approached the piano and sat on the bench beside Gustave. He played a few notes, let his fingers linger on the keys, and Gustave lifted his head, looked up at him.

"Your mother needs to rest," Erik said, choosing his words carefully. Gustave turned his head to look at Christine, who was reclining on the couch with her eyes closed. "Would you like to come and explore with me?"

Gustave shrugged but didn't say anything. Erik stifled a sigh, picked out a melody on the piano and waited. Eventually Gustave would speak, whether to agree or refuse. Until he did, Erik could wait. He had learned patience, in the last decade, and could think of no more appropriate situation to practice it than with his son.

His son. He held his breath for a moment, as if breathing would shatter that fragile thought. His son, his beautiful, perfect son. The child that he and Christine had created.

Never again, he swore to himself, would Gustave be in danger. Never again would he have to watch as someone threatened his child. He would make sure of it, somehow.

"I don't want to leave Mother," Gustave said at last, barely above a whisper. He bit his lip, a nervous habit, and Erik turned to him, brushed a hand over Gustave's fair hair, the urge to touch too irresistible.

"I know," he said. "But look, Gustave. Look how tired she is." Gustave nodded, reluctant, and Erik waited once more.

"Where would we go?" the boy asked after a few moments, clearly swaying towards agreement.

"Wherever you like," Erik said, and then he amended his statement at Gustave's sudden, ill-concealed look of fright. "Not too far. Close enough that we can return quickly." Gustave hesitated still, unwilling to leave his mother, and Erik sighed. "Gustave," he said quietly, "I will not allow harm to come to you. Or to your mother."

At last Gustave nodded, at last he agreed, and he slipped off the piano bench, went to kiss his mother's cheek and then came back to Erik, held his hand out expectantly. Erik took it, revelling in the feel of the small hand in his, and led Gustave to the door. He glanced back at Christine, found her watching them with weary eyes.

"He will be safe with me," Erik said, assuming she needed some reassurance. But Christine smiled a tired smile and rested her head against the cushions behind her.

"I know," she said. "I've never doubted that." Her faith in him was warming. She trusted him – perhaps loved him still, perhaps would stay with him now. It was more than the nebulous hope that had lived within him for years, it was a vivid possibility now, and although he knew she needed time, Erik would not be idle while she grieved.

He closed the suite door behind him, looked down at Gustave. "What shall we do?" he asked. "You seemed to enjoy my workroom, we could return there if you wish." Gustave brightened at once, smiling up at Erik.

"Mother said you write music," he said. "I have a song in my head – could you help me write it?" Erik nodded, pleased. It would have been surprising if Gustave didn't display musical ability, but Gustave had clearly inherited his own musicality, something that Erik had always believed was unique to him. It was something that had always isolated him, perhaps almost as much as his deformity, and he wished nothing more than to cultivate it in Gustave, to show him how wondrous it was.

He wondered, just for a moment, how Raoul had responded to Gustave. Whether Raoul had made any attempt to understand, or had just left the boy to Christine's care and tutelage. Certainly the Comte had believed quickly – perhaps too quickly – that Gustave was in fact Erik's son and not his own. Erik wondered if Gustave had felt loved by the man who had raised him.

Gustave clutched at his hand, looked up at him with a sudden frown. "I don't know what to call you," he confessed. It was not something Erik had thought of before. Gustave had called him by his title yesterday, had called him Mister Y before he knew the truth, but Erik knew well enough that Gustave would not easily be able to call him 'father' – not yet, at least, not for some time to come. Less than twelve hours since Gustave had been told the truth, less than twelve hours since Raoul had died. No, Gustave could not call him by the title still held by Raoul.

"My name is Erik," he said at last. "Perhaps you should call me that."

"But…" Gustave looked up at him, still frowning. Erik could almost see thoughts forming in his head, the love for his father and yet the recognition of Erik as kin.

Erik offered him a smile, made it easy for him. "Gustave, your father has died," he said. "I don't expect to replace him." Eventually Gustave would come to love him – he hoped. But for now he could not expect too much, would not demand too much from the young boy.

Gustave looked at him for a moment more, almost measuring him, and finally he nodded. "Alright," he agreed. "Erik. Will you help me write my song down?"

"Of course," Erik said, and he led Gustave down the hallway towards the lifts. "Is it the song you played for me yesterday?"

"Yes," said Gustave with another nod. "I've had it in my head for ages and ages. Since we came from France on the ship." He hummed a few notes, rocked forwards onto his toes and then back. "I didn't know all of it at the beginning," he continued, "but I think I know it all now."

The lift arrived, the bellboy within barely batting an eyelid at the sight of his employer with a child, and Gustave was silent until they reached the top of the hotel and the lift doors slid open to reveal Erik's home.

"I _do_ like it here," he said with a happy sigh, and almost ran from the lift in his haste. Erik watched, amused, and followed his son up the winding staircase that led from the living space into his workroom. It seemed that Christine had been right; a change of scenery and a suitably distracting activity was enough to keep Gustave's mind off yesterday's events, at least for now.

"Oh!" exclaimed Gustave, faltering at the top of the stairs. Erik hastened to join him, held his hand out to pull Gustave behind him if necessary, but a quick glance around the workroom revealed only Fleck, sitting at his desk.

"What is it?" he demanded, impatient at the intrusion. Fleck rose, less steady than usual, and Erik scowled when he realised she'd been crying. He had little patience for distressed employees, usually left such interactions to Madame Giry. But Madame Giry had not shown herself today, and Fleck had been loyal to him. Much as he might like to, he could not turn her away.

"What is it?" he asked again, gentling his tone.

"I'm sorry, Master," she said, "for coming here without your permission. But I – I had to tell you – to apologise. I should have stopped Miss Giry." She looked at Gustave, her expression full of relief. "But the child is unharmed."

Erik sighed, touched Gustave's shoulder. "Go to the piano," he suggested. "I'll join you in a moment." Gustave nodded and ran to the piano, knelt on the piano stool and started playing his melody. Erik motioned for Fleck to join him at the far side of the room by the window that overlooked Phantasma. "You are not to blame," he said bluntly. "You had no idea."

"I knew she had no business with him," Fleck said, refusing to retreat from her miserable stance. "I knew he is your – " She cut herself off, looked up at him with a little fear. Erik stared at her, waiting to see what she would say. He wasn't surprised she knew – Fleck had always been perceptive – but he wouldn't confirm it, not until he'd spoken to Christine.

Fleck dropped her gaze, looked down at her feet. "I'm sorry, Master," she said timidly. Erik didn't answer, looked across the room at his son, found the boy looking back at him. Gustave was unharmed – or would be so, once his grief had run its course. And Fleck had nothing to apologise for, nothing to feel ashamed over.

"You didn't know," he said at last, and turned back to her. "As you said, Gustave is unharmed. As is the Comtesse de Chagny." She nodded, clearly still unsure, and Erik sighed. "Of all of us, you are least to blame," he told her. "Misplaced guilt is pointless." She nodded again, and he was pleased to see that she seemed to accept his words. "Now," he went on, "enough of this. I'm sure you have things to do."

"Yes, Master," said Fleck, and she offered him a small, watery smile before limping to the stairs and descending. Erik waited until he heard the sound of the lift arriving before going to Gustave's side.

"Is she alright?" Gustave wanted to know. "I like her." He moved along the bench to let Erik sit next to him. "She looked upset."

"Fleck will be fine," said Erik. He reached out for blank manuscript paper, found a pencil among the papers. "You know how to read music?" he asked.

"Mother taught me," said Gustave. "Father doesn't – " He stopped himself, aghast; his eyes went wide, his mouth hung open. Erik carefully looked away, gave the child time to recover from his slip. "Father didn't like it," Gustave corrected himself finally, quieter now. "He used to. When I was younger. But he doesn't like me writing music. He says…" He paused, straightened his back. "He said I'm a de Chagny and it would only ever be a hobby. If he caught me, he…" He stopped again, gave a quick glance up to Erik and then looked down again. "He was upset," he ended, but the words were stilted, as if he'd meant to say something else.

Erik stifled his first, angry retort; it wouldn't help Gustave, might only serve to drive him away, and he refused to allow that. He had to be careful, had to think what Christine would want him to say.

"I'm sure he only wanted the best for you," he said at last, and if he was lying, Gustave would never know. "It is no surprise to me that you enjoy writing music. Your mother is the greatest singer I have ever heard, and your grandfather was an extremely talented violinist." He paused, glanced at Gustave and found the boy's head bowed low. "And I am a composer," he added, gentle and careful. "I have written a great deal of music. For me there is very little that gives me more pleasure."

Gustave nodded but said nothing. His hands slipped off the piano keys, came to rest on his knees.

"What is it?" Erik asked. Gustave shrugged; Erik waited for a moment more, and then put the manuscript paper onto the music stand. "Begin your song," he suggested. "I'll write it down, and then we can work on it together."

"And then we can show it to Mother," said Gustave. He straightened, looked up at Erik. "I think she'll like it," he confided.

"I'm sure she will," said Erik, and lifted the pencil. "Now, begin."

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><p>Comments are love :P<p> 


	4. Chapter 4

Title: Love Will Still Remain

Rating: M

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' or 'Love Never Dies' does not belong to me.

* * *

><p>Christine had only planned to lie down for half an hour, to rest for a short time before starting to deal with some of the things that had to be dealt with. The hotel room was quiet and dark, and she honestly hadn't meant to fall asleep.<p>

But she awoke to a knocking at the door, and when she rubbed a hand across her eyes and glanced at the clock on the mantel, she saw that nearly two hours had passed since she'd lain down on the couch to rest.

She rose, shaking her dress in a vain attempt to smooth out the creases from her nap, and went to the door.

Madame Giry was waiting on the other side. Christine looked at her for a long, tense moment, and then she pursed her lips together and stepped aside.

"Come in," she said. Madame Giry entered the suite and Christine closed the door behind her, went to open the curtains. "Sit down, please," she invited. "Shall I call for some tea?"

"You don't have to be hospitable to me," said Madame Giry, but she sat down, stiff and upright on the couch. "I know you must hate me."

Christine sighed, hesitated for a moment and then joined Madame Giry on the couch. "No," she said. "I don't hate you. I…I don't even hate Meg." Madame Giry frowned faintly, confused, and Christine offered a shrug. "I haven't seen either of you in ten years," she said. "But Meg was like my sister, Madame. And I can't help thinking that she must be…deeply troubled to have been that desperate." She clasped her hands in her lap, so tightly that her knuckles were white. "And I'm hardly blameless," she added.

Madame Giry made an aborted movement, as if she wanted to reach out to Christine but thought better of it.

"Thank you for that, Christine," she said. "But it's not true. And Meg killed…" Her breath caught and she closed her eyes for a moment. "Meg killed your husband," she continued. "I would not blame you for hating us both."

"She's clearly hated me for years," said Christine, calmer than she felt. "Or resented me, at least." Madame Giry didn't say anything, and Christine nodded. She hesitated then, unsure whether she should reveal the truth, whether Madame Giry would care. Whether the woman who had raised her still cared.

And then she remembered how distraught Madame Giry had been last night, when it was revealed that Meg had abducted Gustave from her dressing room – how she had cried out that she had been mother to them all, that she had loved them all.

"Raoul was leaving me," she confessed at last, and found she was near tears again. "He was leaving me. We've been…having problems for some time, and when we arrived here to find Erik…"

"Oh, my child," said Madame Giry softly, and this time she did reach out, took Christine's hands in hers and squeezed them. "I am so sorry."

"But you're not surprised, I suspect," said Christine, and Madame Giry didn't deny it. She had urged Christine to marry Raoul, years before when they had all been at the Opera Populaire, and Christine had loved Raoul, she truly had. But her love for Raoul had been so different from her love for Erik. A childish love, something that couldn't possibly last.

And she had loved Erik. She would have stayed with him, if he had allowed it.

"I have never stopped caring for you, Christine," said Madame Giry, as if she could sense some of Christine's thoughts. "I…Meg is not the only one to have grown bitter, these past few years. We have spent so long working for Erik, working to help him rebuild himself, and…" She shrugged, pulled away from Christine. "And he has only ever thought of you. It has not been easy."

"I'm so sorry," whispered Christine. She fumbled in her pocket for a handkerchief, but didn't have one. "I've made such a mess of everything. Not just my own life, but my friends' lives too." She took a shaky breath, closed her eyes briefly. "I feel so guilty," she admitted. "Raoul is – he's _dead_, and yet all I can think of is that I'm free now. That I won't have to look at him every day and _lie_ to him."

"About Gustave?" asked Madame Giry gently. Christine nodded.

"And about our marriage," she said. "It's been failing for a long time." She rubbed a hand across her damp cheeks, feeling as though she were sixteen years old again, just a ballet dancer confiding in her foster mother. "I wished so many times that I had made different decisions," she admitted. "I hurt Raoul so much."

"Raoul made his own choices as well," Madame Giry told her. "Christine, I truly believed he loved you, that it would be enough. Erik…Erik was so damaged, so…" She struggled to find the words, and Christine waited patiently. "He was obsessed," she continued at last. "No doubt he still is, but he has learnt to live with people – at least a little." She shrugged, held her hands up helplessly. "I thought I was helping you both."

"We all made choices," Christine said quietly. She looked down at her hands, at the wedding ring on her finger. "We are all who we are because of those choices." She sighed, looked back at Madame Giry. "I have missed you, Madame. Raoul's mother passed away several years ago, and we were never on good terms."

Madame Giry smiled at her. "I have missed you also," she admitted. "But Erik needed me more. As did Meg." Her smile faded. "Although I have failed there." She shook her head wearily. "They have taken her to the sanatorium," she said. "I think she has quite lost her senses."

Christine didn't know what to say, wasn't even sure she wanted to comfort Madame Giry. She had spoken the truth, she didn't hate Meg – but her pity did not, could not extend too far. Whatever her troubles, however ill she was, Meg had shot Raoul. And no matter how unhappy they had been, he had still been her husband.

"What will you do now?" Madame Giry asked after a few moments of silence. "Will you go back to France?"

"I must," said Christine. She had sent a telegram to Raoul's remaining family, his sister and his uncle, but she knew that Raoul's debts must be settled, and she was unwilling to leave that to Charles de Chagny, who had expressed his opinions of her and of Raoul many times.

"And Erik?"

Christine sighed, looked away from her, looked towards the piano and the music that lay scattered on its top. "I don't know," she admitted. "I…I don't want to leave him again. I think it would kill me to be parted from him now." Even the thought of it made her feel ill, made her bring a hand to her mouth to keep from crying out.

Madame Giry began to speak again, but was interrupted by the door opening. Gustave came running in, clutching papers in his hand, and Erik followed close behind; he stopped in the doorway, staring at Madame Giry. His expression grew black and angry.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded.

"Erik, no," said Christine, rising and going to meet him. "Please, don't be angry with her. It wasn't her fault." She touched his arm, waited until he tore his gaze away from Madame Giry and looked at her. "Please," she said again, a soft entreaty. "Don't be angry." He was tense under her hand, as if ready to spring forward and seize Madame Giry, fling her from the room. She slid her hand down his arm, found flesh and linked her fingers with his.

At last he relaxed a little, gave her a nod, and she slipped her hand from his and turned to greet Gustave. Her son came happily into her arms, holding his papers up to her.

"Look, Mother, Erik helped me write my song!" he said excitedly. "Can I play it for you?"

"Soon, Gustave," she said, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "I have a visitor just now. And," she continued, glancing at the clock on the mantel, "I'm afraid I have some things I have to do, as well." He pouted, disappointed, and Christine ruffled his hair. "Later, I promise," she said. "Why don't you do your practice now?" He huffed a sigh, but went to the piano and began to play scales.

"I should go," said Madame Giry, rising. She couldn't look at Erik, and Christine thought she was ashamed. "Christine – thank you."

Christine reached out to the woman, touched her arm as Madame Giry made to move past her. "Could you help?" she asked. "I need…well, Gustave and I brought no black clothing with us…"

Madame Giry looked gratified to be asked, pleased to help in some way. "I shall find the address of the seamstress I use," she said. "She is very good, very fast and good value." She glanced at Erik, and then nodded slightly. "I shall return with it shortly," she said, and departed the suite.

Erik seemed to relax once she'd gone, and Christine shook her head at him.

"It wasn't her fault," she reminded him. "She didn't know Meg was…that ill." Erik inclined his head but said nothing, and Christine sighed, gave up. "Was Gustave alright?" she asked then, voice low to keep Gustave from hearing as he practiced.

"He was fine," said Erik quietly. "Music distracted him." Christine was relieved to hear it but not surprised; Gustave had always been that way, ever since he was an infant and began to express himself through music. "And you, Christine?" he asked her then, and she let his concern comfort her.

"I slept for a while," she said. "I feel more rested, at least." She sighed then, brought her hands to her face and pressed her fingers against her eyes. "There's so much I have to do, but I…"

"Can I help?" Erik asked her, reaching out to draw her hands away from her face. "Let me help." She looked up at him, tempted to just let him take care of things, take care of _her_, the way she knew he had always wanted.

But she wasn't a child anymore, and she had a duty to Raoul, to his memory, to take care of things herself. Reluctant, she shook her head.

"Please believe me when I say that you are helping," she said to him. "Just by being here." Christine let him hold her hands for a moment more, relished the touch – wishing for more – and then she pulled away. "I must write to the Cunard Line and inform them of the changed plans," she said. "I'm not sure when we'll be able to travel back to France, but –" She cut herself off at the look on his face, the way he turned away from her so that she was staring up at his blank, white mask.

She paused, breathed out in a sigh. "I must, Erik," she said quietly. "For all sorts of reasons. The debts must be paid, and there is the house and the servants. Things must be settled before we –"

"You will take my son from me," said Erik, voice low and angry. "I've missed so much and now –"

"No, no," said Christine, alarmed a little, and she tried to reach for him but he pulled away. "Erik, you must see that I have to return. I can't simply abandon our whole lives there. I can't walk away without looking back."

"I must see nothing," he snapped, and Christine was aware that Gustave had stopped playing, was listening to their conversation – their argument. He would be scared, she knew – he had seen Raoul's arguments with her, seen their result. "What do you _want_, Christine? Do you want to leave?" Erik demanded.

"No, of course not," she said, and she stopped still, startled at the depth of her own feeling, and then surprised that it was any kind of revelation to her. She loved Erik – more than that, she wished to be near him always, knew she belonged to him as surely as he belonged to her. Of course she didn't wish to go. She had never wished to be parted from him, years before when she had gone to find him, and she had no wish to leave his side now.

Christine smiled, and saw his surprise. "I don't want to go," she said, and she reached up to him, gently eased his mask away from his face. He didn't move; he stared back at her as she looked up at him, at the bloated lips, the skin stretched so paper-thin that it revealed the flesh and bone beneath, the mismatched eyes.

"I want to stay," she said. "I want to stay with you."


	5. Chapter 5

Title: Love Will Still Remain

Rating: M

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' or 'Love Never Dies' does not belong to me.

Note: Switched the category from LND to PotO, on realising that lots of other people have put post-LND fic into the PotO category :)

* * *

><p>"Mother?"<p>

"Yes, Gustave, what is it?" asked Christine, absent-minded as she re-read the telegram in her hand.

"Mother, are we staying here with Mister – with Erik?"

Christine looked up at Gustave, paused to remember once again how very thankful she was that he was safe and unharmed. For ten years, Gustave had been the bright spot in her life. He had been her dearest joy and her greatest delight, a solace as Raoul had increasingly turned to gambling and alcohol in his quest to escape the unhappiness of their marriage. A reminder of her time with Erik, as well.

She folded the telegram and put it into her pocket, and then patted the couch beside her. "Come here, Gustave," she invited. He joined her eagerly, sat on the couch and looked up at her. She spared a moment to remember the days when she'd had to lift him onto seats, when his little legs had dangled over the edge of a chair. Then she smiled at him. "Do you remember what I told you about my life before I married your father?" she asked.

"You lived at the Opera Populaire," said Gustave with a nod. He looked confused, not sure how this related to his question. "You trained to be a singer."

"A dancer, first," Christine corrected him. "I was part of the corps de ballet there, and then my teacher found me. He trained my voice, taught me everything I know." She waited to see if he would connect things, and then she continued. "That teacher was Erik, Gustave. He was my dearest, closest friend as well as my mentor."

"You've never mentioned him," said Gustave uncertainly.

"No," she agreed. "Your father…didn't like it. You see, Erik was the Opera Ghost." Gustave's eyes widened, his mouth opened in surprise, and Christine smiled. "Yes, I know you've heard the stories. Raoul wanted to keep it all from you, but it seems even now everyone in Paris know about me and the Phantom."

"But everyone says the Opera Ghost was awful – a murderer," said Gustave slowly, dropping his gaze.

"Erik frightened them," Christine said, choosing not to answer directly. She loathed lying to Gustave, but avoidance wasn't the same thing. "And Raoul…didn't like that I was friends with him."

"Did you love him?" Gustave asked, and Christine couldn't quite meet his eyes, couldn't look at him while she told him the truth.

"I did," she said. "Very much."

"More – more than you loved Father?" Gustave asked, tentative, and Christine exhaled, lifted her gaze to meet his.

"I loved Raoul very much also," she told him. "But in a different way." She sighed, raised a hand to smooth down his fair hair. "We were both so very young then, and…I think I became infected by everyone's fear. They were afraid of Erik, and so I began to be as well, a little. And Raoul swept me off my feet." She smiled faintly. "No, Gustave, I did not love Erik _more_ than I loved your father. But I loved him in a very different way."

"I know you and Father weren't happy," said Gustave, and she lowered her hand, cupped his cheek. He bit his lip, looked up at her anxiously. "I know you weren't. I saw how he…" He stopped, changed his words. "Was it because of me?"

"Oh, Gustave, no," she said quickly. "Don't ever think that." She wanted to reach out and embrace him, but he was sitting stiffly, as if he didn't want to be touched. She recognised it, withdrew her hand. "Gustave, I love you more than anything else in the world. And your father loved you as well, of course he did." She could tell he didn't believe him. For the last few years it had been increasingly difficult to persuade him that Raoul loved him – and she was sure that Raoul _had_ loved Gustave. Even at the end, even when he'd known that Gustave wasn't his blood, he'd loved Gustave.

"I know you don't want to hear this," she said finally, choosing her words carefully, "but there are things I have chosen not to tell you, Gustave, because I have believed you too young for them."

"Is that why you never told me?" he demanded, voice tight with anger, and he reminded her so much of Erik in that moment. "Mother, why didn't you ever tell me about my father?"

Christine was helpless, stared at him and shook her head. "Gustave – "

"He never loved me," Gustave interrupted, and he was near tears now, full of conflicting emotions that she could do nothing to soothe. "He never – he didn't – " He cut himself off and flung himself away from her, stood up and went to stare out of the window, arms wrapped around himself.

Christine knew this anger, knew how to deal with it. Gustave had inherited Erik's temper, and she was wiser than she had been as a young girl, had the experience to draw the hurt from the anger. She rose, went to join him at the window but didn't attempt to reach out to him.

"Raoul loved you," she said, working hard to keep her voice serene, to keep her own pain away from Gustave. "He held you when you were born and cried with happiness. He did not always understand you, but that didn't mean he loved you any less." She paused, glanced down at him. "And Erik loves you," she continued then. "He will understand you better than even I do." Gustave made a sound in his throat, but Christine ignored it. "I lost my father when I was younger than you are now, Gustave, and I was left all alone in the world. You have two fathers, who both love you very much."

Gustave muttered something; she didn't ask him to repeat it.

"Now," she said, "I must answer this telegram, and then you and I must visit Madame Giry's seamstress. Please get ready to come with me."

And then she left him at the window, went to the desk and began composing a reply to her telegram. It was from Raoul's uncle, Charles de Chagny, and although telegrams were hardly a good medium for expressing emotion, she could read through the short, terse lines. He blamed her for Raoul's death.

She had to compose a reply, even if she didn't send it today; the cost of sending a telegram across the Atlantic was prohibitive, and she still didn't know what ship she and Gustave would return on. Sergeant Gellar had said they could leave in a few days, once a judge had accepted that their evidence would be presented in their absence, and Christine was anxious to go back to France, to wrap up her affairs there and then –

And then. And then, if she could assuage her guilt, if she could accept that loving Erik didn't mean she grieved any less for Raoul, then she would start her life anew. With Erik, with Gustave. A new family.

"Mother? I'm sorry."

Christine capped her pen, put it down, and looked up at her son.

"It's alright, Gustave," she said. "I understand why you're angry. But thank you for the apology." She gave him a soft smile that seemed to ease his guilt. "Fetch your coat, then, and I'll get mine."

"But Mother – will we be staying here?" Gustave asked, not moving away. "Forever?"

"We'll be going back to France for a while," Christine told him. "But yes. I think so." Gustave nodded and didn't say anything else, went to the coat stand by the door and took down his coat, stretched up to take down Christine's hat. "Thank you, Gustave," she said, rising. "If we're not too long at the seamstress, perhaps we can find somewhere to have an ice cream. Would you like that?"

"Can Erik come?"

She was amused and pleased by his request, but had no answer for him. "He has some business to take care of this afternoon," she reminded him, putting on her hat and coat. "But he's joining us for supper."

"I know," said Gustave with a sigh, clearly disappointed. Christine found her purse, checked that she had American money and the room key, and ushered Gustave out of the suite.

She handed the key in at reception and asked for a cab to be called.

"Of course, my lady," said the receptionist with a polite smile. "You have some messages; would you like them now or when you get back?"

"I'll take them now, please," said Christine, frowning a little. She wasn't expecting any letters, and Charles de Chagny wouldn't send another telegram so soon. The receptionist passed her several folded notes and calling cards, and Christine read them quickly, her indignation growing with each piece of paper.

"What is it, Mother?" Gustave asked, looking up at her. "You're upset."

"No, Gustave, I'm fine," said Christine absently. The messages were all from the press: notes requesting a statement, business cards of journalists. She remembered the photographers waiting when they'd disembarked the ship on their arrival. They'd been more interested in her than she'd liked, but it seemed Raoul's death – the death of a French Comte – was causing an even greater stir.

"Your cab's here, my lady," said the receptionist, and Christine glanced up, saw the doorman standing at the glass doors of the entrance waiting for her.

"Thank you," she said. "If any more journalists leave messages for me, please – " She paused, tried to think. "Tell them I'm unavailable and put the messages in the bin," she finished at last. She wanted to tell the journalists to leave her alone, to leave her family alone in their grief, but she had experience with the press. Being rude wouldn't do anything but make them more eager.

"Why do they want to talk to you?" Gustave demanded, scowling. "You gave an interview yesterday morning."

"I know, Gustave, but…things have changed," she said with a sigh. For a moment she thought he would say something else, but then he nodded, small mouth screwed up in distaste. "Don't worry about it, Gustave," she told him. He seemed to have grown up too much in a short space of time; as if his father's death, and the revelation of the truth, had forced him to age. Her innocent son seemed more worldly somehow.

She didn't want him to have to worry, didn't want him to grow up this quickly. He was only ten years old. He should have had longer to be a child, and her guilt over Raoul and Erik was compounded by her guilt at Gustave's new-found experience.

"Come on, Mother," said Gustave then, tugging at her hand. "The sooner we go, the sooner I can have ice cream."

Christine laughed a little and let him pull her to the door and out to the waiting carriage.

* * *

><p>Comments are love.<p> 


	6. Chapter 6

Title: Love Will Still Remain

Rating: M

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' or 'Love Never Dies' does not belong to me.

* * *

><p>"You look tired, Christine."<p>

"I am tired." Christine sighed, stretched her arms out in an attempt to ease the ache that had settled across her shoulders. It had been a long day – two long days, interrupted by a sleepless night. Gustave hadn't wanted to go to bed; in the end he'd fallen asleep on the couch, and Erik had carried him to his room. It was late now, far too late for her to be awake still, but she didn't want to be alone.

Everything seemed to remind her that Raoul was gone. Even Erik – by his very presence, he was a reminder that her husband was dead, because she would never have been able to be with him like this when Raoul was alive.

She was trying not to think about how much pleasure she was feeling in being with him, with sitting with him and eating with him and yes, being held by him. The joy she had felt at supper, watching Erik and Gustave getting to know each other.

Guilt gnawed at her stomach.

Erik came to sit next to her, close enough to touch if she were to reach out. She wanted to, wanted to lean against him and let him be her strength, if only for a while.

She didn't. She couldn't.

"Christine," he said softly, and she looked at him, saw his concern. "Christine, you should rest."

"I know," she said. "I know I should." And then she did reach out, slipped her hand into his and held tight. "I don't think I can sleep alone," she admitted. "I'm so used to Raoul being there. I had Gustave last night, but…"

"If I thought if would help," said Erik carefully, "you know I would offer. To sleep only." Christine thought perhaps she should be shocked, but it was so like Erik to think of her comfort like that. He had always wanted to look after her; as she'd said to him this morning, she hardly deserved it.

She didn't say anything in response – she ought to, she knew. She ought to ignore the sudden thrill that had run through her at the thought of being that close to him, that intimate.

She closed her eyes, held his hand tighter and shook her head. "There are so many things I want," she said. "I want to know about your life and tell you about mine. I want…" She trailed off as he lifted her hand to his mouth, brushed a kiss against her fingers. "I feel so relieved," she said, words tumbling out of her mouth so quickly she wasn't sure he'd understand. "And so guilty about it."

He was silent, although whether he understood or not, she didn't want to guess.

"I wish I could discard it all," she continued, still keeping her eyes squeezed shut. "I wish I could forget that I should be grieving, but…and I do grieve for Raoul, of course I do, but Erik…"

"You are conflicted," he murmured, and she opened her eyes, found him watching her intently. "There is no shame in it," he added. "You did love him."

"Yes," she was forced to agree, "I did. But I didn't love him as I should, and that is why I have guilt." She lifted her free hand, touched his bare cheek in a gentle caress. "I loved you then," she said. "I was such a fool."

"We all were, perhaps," he said, and she nodded, relieved that he seemed to understand what she was feeling, seemed to understand _why_ she was feeling this way. "Christine, please try to rest," he entreated then. "You're so tired. You'll become ill."

She had to acknowledge that he was right – if she didn't sleep, didn't rest better tonight than she had last night, she would become too fatigued to do any of the myriad things she was sure she still had to do. Too fatigued to care for Gustave.

"Will you sing for me?" she asked him. "Sing me to sleep?"

He smiled, a faint curl to his lips. "As I did when you first came to the Opera House?" She nodded, and he squeezed her hand lightly. "Very well, if you wish it."

"I've missed your voice," Christine said, quite truthfully. She had missed _him_, of course, but nothing had ever inspired her like his voice. As a distraught child in the Opera Populaire, his voice had comforted and guided her, and even once she had known who he was, his voice had continued to draw her to him.

He released her hand as he rose, and she reached out for him, afraid he was going to leave her. But he went to pull a blanket from a cupboard, indicated for her to lie down on the couch and then covered her.

"I should make you go to bed," he said, looking down at her, but Christine smiled at him and he perched on the edge of the couch, took her hand again and began to sing. Gentle lullabies and folk songs, music familiar to her from her childhood, and almost without realising it Christine began to drift into sleep.

She woke, briefly, when she felt herself being lifted; she grasped at Erik, rested her head against his shoulder as he carried her through to the bedroom and lay her gently down on the bed.

"Don't leave me," she murmured drowsily.

"Hush, Christine, I'm staying with you," Erik reassured her. "Turn onto your front, let me loosen your corset." She yawned and nodded agreement, pushed away thoughts of impropriety as his nimble fingers unbuttoned her dress, eased it from her body and loosened the corset.

"There," he murmured then, "sleep now." She rolled onto her side, reached out languidly for his hand and felt his fingers brush across her hair.

Christine hadn't dreamed last night, too numb for it perhaps, but she dreamed tonight. In her dreams she was back at the Opera Populaire, lost in the levels beneath the ground. Gustave was there too, always just out of her sight, always disappearing around corners and down dark stairwells before she could reach him. In her dream she searched for him, ran through the tunnels and dark spaces underneath the Opera; in her dream she could hear someone laughing at her, and she cried out as again and again Gustave was whisked away from her by some force.

She came to the lake, but in her dream it was as vast as an ocean, and now she saw Gustave, on a boat too far out for her to reach. Raoul was there, rowing the boat away, and she cried out, tried to wade into the water to reach them, but someone was holding her back – Raoul, her dream making him be in two places at once, and it was the ugly Raoul, the Raoul who emerged when he'd been drinking, the scowling, fierce, violent man who had grown out of the sweet boy she'd once known.

She struggled against his hold, against the hands that gripped her shoulders and held her back from trying to reach Gustave. Someone was saying her name, someone shook her –

She woke. Erik's face was close above hers, his white mask almost shining in the grey pre-dawn light that filtered through the curtains. It was his hands on her shoulders, his voice saying her name.

"Just a dream," he was saying. "Wake, Christine, the dream can't hurt you."

She gave a strangled sob, sat up and flung her arms about his neck. For a moment he was still, as if unsure how to react, and then his hands slid from her shoulders, his arms wrapped around her waist and he held her close to him. Christine pressed her face against his chest and sobbed, the terror of the dream and the emotional burden of the past days overwhelming her at last.

She clung to him for long minutes, and his arms were warm around her, his lips pressed to her hair. Comforting, loving.

At last her tears ceased and Erik eased her back down onto the bed, sat beside her and held her hands in his.

"Only a dream," he said again, and she nodded, closed her eyes for a moment. Her head felt hot and aching, her eyes sore from crying. Erik touched her cheek, brushed away dampness. "Let me get you a glass of water."

"Yes," she murmured. "Thank you." He left her briefly, and when he returned she let him help her sit, sipped the water slowly. "I'm so sorry," she said then.

"Hush," Erik admonished. "There's no need to apologise." He offered her a handkerchief and, feeling a little like a child again, she scrubbed her face dry. "Would it help to share the dream?"

"I –" Her voice choked in her throat, the words refused to come and Erik reached to take the glass from her hand. "I'm sorry," she repeated, and Erik shook his head, put the glass on the bedside table.

"The dream is over," he said, his voice soft and persuasive. "It can't hurt you, Christine."

"I dreamed I was back in the Opera House," Christine said hurriedly. "With Gustave, only I couldn't reach him – he was always just out of my reach." She blinked away yet more tears, pressed her hands to her eyes and took deep breaths. "And then we were at the lake, and Raoul had Gustave on a boat, he was taking him away from me."

Erik was silent for a long moment, and then he exhaled, reached to embrace her again. "Gustave is safe," he told her. "He's asleep in his bedroom, I checked on him just a few moments ago. And Raoul…Raoul is gone." Christine nodded, rested her head against his shoulder. "Just a dream," he soothed her.

"I was so scared," she whispered, and he rocked her gently, stroked her hair. "Erik…don't leave me."

"Never," he promised. "Never again."

"Will you come with us? To France?" she asked him then. Erik sighed, pulled back to look at her and she read his answer in her face. "No," she said, nodding a little. "No, of course. People will remember, it might be dangerous for you."

"Perhaps," Erik said slowly. "There would be difficulties. But solutions could be found, if you wish me to accompany you." He lifted a hand, pressed a finger to her lips. "But not tonight, Christine. You need more sleep. We can talk about it tomorrow."

Christine pursed her lips and then nodded. "Alright," she agreed. "But together, Erik. Please. Please don't decide for us." She couldn't reproach him aloud with the choice he'd made ten years ago – had already done so, when they'd met at last after ten long, lonely years of separation, and she'd seen how it had pained him. She never wanted to cause him pain again.

But Erik knew what she meant; he nodded, looked tired just for a moment.

"Together," he said. "I promise."

She trusted in his promise, and let him ease her back down onto the bed; he pulled the covers up, tucking her in as if she were a child, and the tenderness of the action made her warm.

"Stay with me," she murmured, drowsy again. "Stay with me, Erik."

His lips brushed against her forehead and she slept.


	7. Chapter 7

Title: Love Will Still Remain

Rating: M

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' or 'Love Never Dies' does not belong to me.

* * *

><p>Christine felt it should have been raining on the day of Raoul's funeral. It had rained at other funerals she'd attended in her life. At her father's funeral the skies had opened, and the mourners had scattered for cover in the church until it lightened enough to allow the service to continue. It had rained at the funeral of Raoul's brother Philippe, and at that of her closest friend among the French elite, when she had died in childbirth three years ago.<p>

It was hot in New York; hot and dry, barely a breath of wind to ease the heat in the strange, unfamiliar cemetery so far from the graveyard where all Raoul's family were buried. Gustave was itching uncomfortably in his black suit, and Christine wished she could do the same. She wore summer clothes, but black nonetheless, and the heat of it was almost unbearable.

Erik wasn't with them; he'd wanted to come, had expressed concern for both of them, but Christine had been firm. It would be inappropriate for Erik to attend Raoul's funeral. The two men had loathed each other in life, and despite their desire for a future together, despite Gustave's parentage, Christine could not bring her lover to her husband's funeral.

He'd insisted on sending someone with them, though – Mr Squelch, who he'd described as a friend. Christine knew enough of him, both his past and his present, to know he used that word for very few people, and so she had not objected. Squelch waited by the carriage at the cemetery gates, but she was sure he was watching, making sure they were as well as circumstances allowed. He'd been a close shadow during the mass in the church itself, although Christine could see he wasn't a Catholic.

The priest finished; Christine reached for Gustave's hand as they watched the coffin-bearers lower the coffin into the ground, and then she bent, scooped up a handful of dirt and threw it onto the coffin. Gustave did the same, and her heart ached for him. She wished she could spare him this.

"What happens now, Mother?" Gustave asked her, and Christine looked down at him, squeezed his hand.

"Now we go back to the hotel," she said. "And we continue our lives." She looked at him for a moment more and then sighed. "I would like to go to confession," she told him. "Would you mind going back to the hotel with Mr Squelch without me?"

Gustave pursed his lips and looked up at her with a mulish expression. "Erik won't like it," he said, and Christine heard what remained unsaid – that Gustave didn't like it.

But Christine felt she needed to confess to a priest, on today of all days.

"Will you be alright?" she asked him. "You like Mr Squelch, don't you?"

"Yes," said Gustave slowly, "but…" He huffed a sigh and nodded. "Alright, Mother." She smiled at him, released his hand as they reached the carriage and Squelch opened the door for them.

"I'm going to stay for a while," she said to the large man. "I need to go to confession. Will you take Gustave back to the hotel?"

"The Master won't like it," said Squelch at once, and Christine offered him a tight smile.

"I know," she said. "But I need to do this. He'll understand." Erik always _had_ understood, had always known her faith was important to her. As a child, as a youth, when she'd still believed him to be her Angel of Music, he had occasionally given her gifts – trifles, really, nothing that would be noticed by her compatriots in the ballet corps. A new handkerchief, a book of fairytales, and a rosary. It had been very plain, well-worn, and she had treasured it, gave her Angel heart-felt thanks. She had it still, hidden in the bottom of her jewellery box.

"He won't like it," Squelch repeated, but Christine was resolute. At last he conceded with a shrug. "Shall I bring the carriage back in an hour?" he suggested, and she could tell that he meant to do it whether she agreed or not.

"That would be fine, thank you," she said, and pressed a kiss to Gustave's forehead. "I'll see you soon," she told him, and he nodded, let Squelch help him up onto the box. Christine watched them go, and then turned along the path that led to the church.

The priest was inside, tidying away after the service; he was a kindly man, if a little unlike the priests she was used to in France, and had taken great pains to ensure that the funeral preparations had been as easy for her as possible. Now he turned at the sound of her footsteps, surprise on his angular face.

"Lady de Chagny," he said. "I thought you'd left – was there anything more you needed?"

"I was hoping you had time for a confession, Father Martin," said Christine, and he looked at her keenly. She worried suddenly that he had other engagements, that she would have to leave, but at last he nodded.

"Very well," he said. "The confessional is there; I will join you in a few moments." He indicated the booth at one side of the church, and Christine was aware of his gaze as she went to it, stepped inside and drew the curtain closed.

The darkness was almost a comfort; the catharsis of a confession would be even more so. She hardly expected forgiveness, but she knew that even speaking of it to someone would help ease the burden, if not the guilt itself.

Father Martin entered the other side of the confessional. For a moment, before he shut the curtain, she could see his outline through the carved partition that separated priest from confessor. And then all was darkness again, stiflingly hot. Christine removed her gloves, let her bare hands rest in her lap.

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned," she said quietly. "It has been a month since my last confession."

"What are your sins, my child?" Father Martin asked. Christine closed her eyes, felt the guilt rise up.

"I – I have committed adultery, Father," she said, her words spilling out so quickly she wasn't sure he would understand. "I did not – I did not lay with another man during our marriage, but I loved another." He didn't say anything, and Christine continued. "My husband was…he was a good man, but I never loved him as I should. I was faithful in body, but my heart – my heart always belonged to Erik."

"Who is this other man, this Erik?" the priest questioned, voice gentle.

"He taught me to sing," she said, and opened her eyes to the darkness again. "He was my inspiration. Without him…" She struggled to find the right words. "Without him my voice would have been nothing," she said at last. "But he…he had such a temper, and he was not a good man then. I was scared, and Raoul was…safe." She gave a strangled half-laugh, shook her head. "I was a silly little girl. I did love him, but never as I loved Erik." She paused, clasped her hands together. "I lay with Erik the night before my wedding," she admitted in a hushed whisper. "I would have stayed with him, but he left me."

"And so you married Raoul," Father Martin prompted. She couldn't speak, and he continued. "Marriage is a partnership, my child, founded on many things. Love is precious and sacred, but friendship, companionship…these things are also important for a marriage."

"And Raoul was my friend," she whispered. "If nothing else."

"Did you commit adultery, my child? Did you have relations with a man who was not your husband during your marriage?"

"No," Christine said at once. "No, never. But I _was_ unfaithful, Father." It made her heartsick to think of how unfaithful she had been. "My child is not Raoul's," she admitted after a moment. "He – he is Erik's."

The priest was silent for a long moment, and she closed her eyes again, awaited condemnation. She deserved it, she knew – deserved to be despised and censured. It would not keep her from a future with Erik, but it was what she deserved for the past ten years.

"My child," he said at last, "if you were unfaithful in word or in deed at any time after your wedding, you must tell me. But if your betrayal was solely in your feelings, in your heart, then the sin is not as great as I think you believe."

Christine was silent; she had tried, many times, to tell herself – to make herself believe – that she was not as guilty as she felt. That she had been faithful to Raoul, even if her love had not been the kind she'd imagined it would be. Her night with Erik had been before her marriage –

although only just, a thought that gave her little comfort – and when he had returned to her life they had done nothing, no caress or kiss, until…

Until Raoul was dead.

"My husband is dead," she whispered. "And all I can think about is my life with Erik. My future with him and our son. Raoul told me to be happy, but..."

"The marriage vow is until death do you part, my child," Father Martin reminded her. "You are a widow now, not a wife." He paused. "Many widows remarry, for many reasons. A child grows best with two parents, after all."

"Yes," said Christine. "Yes, but…" She sighed. "It feels wrong, Father. I have always tried to live a good, Christian life, but I cannot see how to reconcile my love for Erik with my guilt."

"Do not try to," he advised her. "Your feelings will resolve themselves in time, I think. But you must take that time, my child. You must not rush to anything."

"No," she murmured. "No, I must not. I rushed to marry Raoul, I think. For Gustave's sake I cannot make any more mistakes." She touched her wedding ring, thought of ten wasted years. "But there will be time, in any case," she said suddenly. "I must return to France. Our estate there…I must settle our affairs. We'll be gone six months."

"Good," said the priest gently. "That is good, my child. Use the time wisely and be sure of your feelings. God will forgive you, and you must forgive yourself as well. If you have sinned, it was not gravely. Go in peace, and God bless you."

"Thank you, Father," said Christine. She made the sign of the cross and then rose, pushed the curtain aside and stepped out, left the church. It was a little cooler now, a breeze had picked up and it was just enough to ease the heat.

The carriage pulled up to the gates just as she reached them, but it was not only Squelch who had returned for her – Erik was inside, his gaze concerned, and he reached out a hand to help her into the carriage.

"I'm alright," she assured him before he could voice the question. "You needn't have come, Erik. And where is Gustave?"

"Safe in my workroom," he said. "Fleck is with him." He didn't release her hand, drew her to sit at his side. "You don't look alright," he said. "Squelch said you wanted to attend confession."

"Yes," she nodded, and leaned against him a little. "It's so hot," she said, and he looked at her – she could see him trying to decide if he should press her about her need for confession. Then he nodded, gave a little shrug.

"It usually is here at this time of year," he said. "In a few weeks it will cool down, and we have snow most winters." He was tentative, but he wrapped his arm around her, pulled her closer. "Gustave will like it, I think," he ventured. He rapped on the carriage roof and a moment later the horses set off, and Christine rested her head on his shoulder.

She was not free from guilt, and she would not be for some time. But Father Martin had lightened her spirits, let her begin to see that looking to her future happiness – to Gustave's happiness and security – was not a sin. They would leave Erik, be parted from him for six months while she settled her affairs. Six months, perhaps a little too soon for a grieving widow to remarry, but she had grown past doing what society expected of her. Society, the kind she had moved in as Raoul's wife, had never welcomed her with open arms.

"Erik," she said quietly, "I am glad you are with me."

She could not see his expression, could not see if he smiled, but he turned his head, kissed her hair, and she knew he was pleased.

* * *

><p>Note: Christine would almost certainly have been Lutheran, coming from Sweden, but I've made her Catholic - she did, after all, live most of her life in France, and married Raoul, who would certainly have been Catholic. Call it a conversion :p<p> 


	8. Chapter 8

Title: Love Will Still Remain

Rating: M

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' or 'Love Never Dies' does not belong to me.

* * *

><p>It was amusing to see Christine supervising Gustave's piano practice. Christine had a rudimentary knowledge of the instrument, enough to know when Gustave made an error if not always enough to correct it – but she was a stern taskmistress, keeping Gustave's attention on his scales when he tried to begin something new, refusing to allow his smiles to tempt her into being lax.<p>

They both wore black now, his son and the woman he loved. Five days had passed since Raoul's death, and Madame Giry's seamstress had been prompt in furnishing Christine with mourning outfits. It made them both look pale – Christine paler than her son, the dark circles under her eyes showing that she was still not sleeping well.

Still, she was beautiful, and Erik found it hard to look away from her. She was still elegant and graceful, just as she had been ten years ago, although her figure was a little fuller from childbirth. Her hair was upswept, revealing her creamy neck, and her mouth was tilted in a smile as she watched her son.

He loved her; how he loved her. And yet tomorrow she would depart, tomorrow she and Gustave would leave New York and sail back to France.

She had promised to return – had sworn it to him, her expression pleading with him to believe her. And he did believe her, didn't truly think she would be so cruel to them both now that, at last, nothing stood in their way. She loved him, just as he loved her. And he was Gustave's father, she had promised him that he would know Gustave.

So many things had changed in such a short space of time.

"Come now, Gustave, just concentrate for a few minutes more," Christine said, breaking into his thoughts. "Then you may play whatever you wish."

"I hate scales," Gustave said crossly, even as he began another repetition, and Erik had to smile at the petulance.

"I'm sorry to say I don't care," said Christine, and she turned then, glanced at Erik with a smile. "Ask Erik, if you want. Learning an instrument requires endless repetition of scales and exercises. It helps you play the music you want."

"You never learned the piano properly," said Gustave, and his fingers moved over the keys easily. "It's not fair for you to tell me I have to do it this way."

"I learned to sing, Gustave," said Christine, a laugh in her voice, and Erik knew what she was thinking as her smile brightened. "The voice is an instrument, like the piano. And my teacher was very strict," she said then, teasing. "I sang what seemed to me entirely pointless, boring exercises for hour after hour and he was never satisfied."

"How unfair of you," Erik observed, rising from the couch and moving to stand next to Christine at the piano. "You had such potential, I merely wished to see you reach it." He rested a hand next to Christine's on the piano top, let their fingers brush together. "You exceeded my expectations many times, once you realised the necessity of the…boring exercises."

"Such high praise," she said, and she swayed a little closer to him. "Admit it, you always thought I could do more."

"No," said Erik, and for a moment he saw her as she had been ten years ago, on the stage at the Opera Populaire, singing his opera. Singing with him. "No, I have always thought your voice…perfection."

They gazed at each other for a long moment, and he only looked away when a flush rose in her cheeks and she turned back to Gustave.

"One more scale, Gustave, and then you may finish," she told him. "You've half an hour before supper, so you may play if you wish."

"I want Erik to play," said Gustave at once; Erik was pleased and flattered by the request, and he nodded agreement. "And Mother, will you sing? The songs you used to sing, before Father started to dri–" He cut himself off and Erik looked sharply at him. It wasn't the first time Gustave had cut himself off before saying something about Raoul, and Erik had growing suspicions about what the boy was concealing.

About what Christine was concealing.

Suddenly he decided he had to know; he could allow them to dance around the subject for the rest of his life, but he would always wonder, would always have that nagging thought in the back of his mind when he looked at them.

And he'd seen how stinking drunk Raoul had been, that morning before Christine's performance.

He put both hands flat on the piano and looked straight at Gustave.

"What did your father do, Gustave?" he asked quietly. He heard Christine's sharp inhalation but ignored her, kept looking at Gustave, who sat at the piano, hands still and eyes downcast. "When he was drunk," Erik continued, "what did he do?"

"Erik, don't," said Christine, and any doubts Erik had harboured fled – if there had truly been nothing, if Gustave were hesitating because he missed his father and was grief-stricken, Christine would have said something, anything, other than 'don't'.

Don't ask.

"Gustave," he said again, "what did he do?"

Gustave lifted his head, looked worriedly from Erik to Christine and back again. "Mother," he said, and now Erik did glance at her, saw her white face and large eyes and regretted that he was causing her pain in pursuit of the truth.

But there would be time for apologies later; he turned back to Gustave, knew the boy well enough by now to know it was only a matter of time before Gustave submitted and revealed all.

Gustave's shoulders sagged, his hands slipped off the piano keys and onto his knees and he bowed his head.

"He stopped Mother singing sometimes," he said, barely more than a murmur. "And I had to be very quiet. If he was drinking."

"Why?" Erik demanded ruthlessly. "Why, Gustave?"

"He didn't like it," said Gustave, an echo of things he'd said again and again over the past few days. Father didn't like it.

"Erik, enough," said Christine. Her voice was strained, she was practically shaking. "Enough," she repeated.

"Did he hurt you?" Erik demanded of her, reaching to grasp her shoulders. He didn't shake her, but he almost wanted to when she refused to answer him. "Christine!"

"Don't ask me that, Erik," she said after a long, tense moment, and Erik spun away from her, went to stand by the balcony doors, stared blindly out. He dimly heard Christine sending Gustave to his bedroom, but he focused on keeping his temper under control.

If he lost his temper now, he knew he might lose Christine. He knew his temper, knew the violence he could cause, and if Raoul had hurt Christine, had hit her…

He could not be, _would_ not be anything like Raoul de Chagny.

"Erik," said Christine softly, by his side now, and Erik shook his head, closed his eyes.

"I cannot hear you make excuses for him," he said, forced out through gritted teeth. "Just answer me truthfully, Christine."

She sighed, touched his arm gently and he almost flinched away from her.

"Do you need to know, Erik?" she asked him. "Truly?" He made no answer – had none to give her, because perhaps she was right, perhaps he didn't _need_ to know. But it was Christine. And Gustave – the thought of anyone raising a hand to his precious, _beautiful_ son was almost more than he could bear.

"I won't say he didn't mean to," said Christine at last. "He was always sorry afterwards. And it wasn't often. He had a club in Paris, he used to drink there more than at home. But yes. Sometimes." Her hand dropped from his arm, she turned to stare out of the window and Erik wished he had the courage to take her into his arms. "He never touched Gustave," Christine continued then, her voice a little firmer. "Not once."

"Oh, Christine," Erik sighed, and he imagined a hundred different times when she might have interceded between her husband and her child. Then he found his courage, he turned to her and pulled her close. She came willingly, wrapped her arms around his neck and rested her head against his shoulder.

"Please don't be angry, Erik," she murmured, and Erik's mouth twisted in a faint sneer. Christine still knew him well, knew the rage that was burning beneath his skin, screaming for release.

And yet there was no target for his anger: Raoul was dead. So he breathed, slow and deep, and held Christine with his arms around her waist.

She pulled away at length, tilted her head up and chastely pressed her mouth to his. He revelled in it, their bodies pressed together and her lips warm and pliant against his.

"Christine," he breathed, when at last they parted, "I love you." Her smile was brilliant, her happiness evident, and he wanted nothing more than to keep her so happy for the rest of her life. "I'm sorry," he said. "I should not have made Gustave speak."

Christine sighed, lifted a hand to her throat to play with the crucifix hanging from a chain around her neck. "Perhaps not," she agreed. "But…maybe it's better this way." She glanced at Gustave's bedroom door, shrugged a little. "Out in the open."

"I…" Erik turned away from her, felt her gaze on his white mask. "I've hurt you too." Christine didn't deny it, kept looking at him, and Erik felt compelled to continue. "My temper is perhaps one of my greatest flaws. I'm sorry for it. And for what it has caused."

"The past is gone," Christine said. "We can't change it. We can only move forward, together." She slipped her hand into his and he lifted it to press a kiss to her knuckles. "Erik…how I shall miss you. I wish we didn't have to be parted."

He sighed. "I think I'll miss you more now than I have these past ten years," he admitted, and was rewarded with a smile. It would be six months before Christine and Gustave returned to him – only six months, and she would come back, and yet it would seem an eternity when he knew that at last she would be his, at last they would be together.

"My Christine," he said, and cupped her cheek in his hand. "So beautiful." She blushed, but turned her face a little into his touch, as if she wanted more.

He wanted more.

He pulled away from her, avoided her gaze. "I'll make sure Gustave is alright," he said, and headed towards his son's bedroom door. "I thought perhaps after supper we could go up to my workroom. I have a gift to give him."

"Yes, of course," said Christine with a sigh. "That sounds wonderful."

Erik paused, glanced back at her and found her watching him with a forlorn expression. He couldn't work out what it meant, so he put it aside to think about later, and knocked on Gustave's door.


	9. Chapter 9

Title: Love Will Still Remain

Rating: M

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' or 'Love Never Dies' does not belong to me.

* * *

><p>"I think that's everything," said Christine, putting her hands on her hips and turning about to inspect the bedroom.<p>

"Everything that you won't need tomorrow, my lady," said her lady's maid, Elise. "And I have your travelling case ready to pack in the morning."

"Good," Christine nodded. "And Gustave's things are packed?"

"Yes, my lady," said Elise, closing the trunk. "The trunks are to go before breakfast?"

"Yes, that's right. And then Mister Y will escort us to the ship afterwards." Christine went to sit at her dressing table, removed her earrings and put them into the jewellery box. Elise came to untie her necklace and unpin her hair, and Christine shook her head slightly, let her curls fall loose. "And then in ten days we shall be at home." She looked at Elise's reflection in the mirror, gentled her voice. "You must think very carefully about what I said to you, Elise. I will provide you with a good reference if you wish to leave me. I don't for a moment expect you to emigrate with us."

"Thank you, my lady," said Elise. "I – I shall let you know once I've decided." She reached for the hairbrush, but Christine shook her head, waved her away.

"It's alright, Elise," she said. "Please, go and enjoy your last evening in New York. I can manage."

"Very good, my lady," said Elise, curtseying. She left the room and Christine sighed, rested an elbow on the dressing table and propped her head up with her hand. She would be sorry to lose Elise, but her maid had family in Paris and would not wish to leave them.

A knock at the door startled her for a moment, and then she smiled. "Come in," she called, and watched as Erik entered. He came close, stood behind her, and she felt the brush of his fingers through her hair. "Is Gustave asleep?" she asked.

"Yes, sound asleep," he said, and rested a hand on her shoulder. The ring on his finger glinted in the mirror, and she realised that he'd been wearing it the whole time. The ring he'd wanted her to wear, the ring she would have worn – should have worn, perhaps – as his wife.

"He liked your gift," she said, pushing aside the thought. Erik had gifted Gustave with a beautiful book of manuscript paper and a fine ink pen, and their son's delight had been plain to see. He'd promised Erik to fill it by the time they returned, and Christine had been pleased that Gustave seemed to have accepted their return, accepted the new direction of their lives.

"He has a great deal of talent," said Erik. "I…hope you will allow me teach to him, when you return."

Christine turned her head and kissed the back of his hand. "Of course," she said quietly. "But it isn't a question of allowing you, Erik. You are his father." His fingers tightened on her shoulder for a moment, and then he reached for her hairbrush and began the task that she had stopped Elise from performing. His hands were gentle, smoothing her hair as he brushed the tangles from it, and she closed her eyes, luxuriated in the feeling, hummed a little.

"I am seeing you in a way I have never seen you before," Erik commented after a time. "You are at ease with me now."

Christine opened her eyes, met his gaze in the mirror. "There were so many complications, before," she said, a little vaguely. There were complications still, probably more than she had thought of, and yet she _was_ at ease with Erik. At ease with the man who knew her so well, who loved her so dearly and excited her so much.

His fingers brushed against her neck and she shivered involuntarily.

"Are you cold?" he asked at once, always so solicitous of her health, and she shook her head.

"No," she said. "Not cold." She watched him in the mirror, saw him pause for just a moment before continuing to brush her hair. "Erik…" Words failed, and she looked down, at her hands folded together on the dressing table, at the wedding ring on her finger.

She hadn't taken it off; had worn it for ten years, would feel strange without its weight. And she had no desire to cause any more scandal in Paris, she would arrive there as a widow and would remain so until she returned to New York and to Erik's waiting arms.

Raoul's ring. Raoul's widow.

Christine had tried to reconcile her grief and her guilt, had spoken to Madame Giry about it several more times and her confession, after Raoul's funeral, had helped a little, but she knew it would take time for her feelings to settle. It would take time.

And yet she _wanted_.

Slowly, deliberately, she pulled the ring off her finger. Erik's movements behind her ceased altogether, and she put the ring down on the table, turned on the seat to look up at him.

"Christine," he said, almost a warning, and she moistened her lips, nervous. His gaze dropped briefly to her mouth.

"You offered me a ring once," she said softly; he nodded. "Offer it again, Erik."

"Christine," he said again, shook his head. "Do you know how you tempt me?" His fingers moved slightly, as if playing a piano, and Christine waited. "You can't wear it," he said, but it sounded as if he were trying to convince himself more than her. "Not yet."

She grasped his hand, stilled his fingers. "But I want to." She stood up, and their bodies were pressed close together. Almost closer than she could bear. "Erik…"

"You're playing with fire, Christine," he said, and his breath was warm on her face. "You told me yourself – not yet."

"I don't care," she said, lifted her hands to rest on his chest. "Six months, Erik." She lowered her gaze, felt her cheeks flush. "I don't want to wait six months." He didn't answer, but his hands settled on her waist, warm even through her clothing. Her breathing quickened; she looked back up at him, saw the warmth in his eyes.

"You have no idea what you do to me," he told her, and she smiled, lifted a hand to brush her fingers against his cheek.

"I love you," she said. "I want to be with you." He turned his face into her hand, kissed her palm, and then he bent his head and kissed her, his mouth pressed to hers, his hands on her waist pulling her impossibly closer.

It felt like coming home.

He pushed her dressing robe from her shoulders, revealed her chemise and corset and made an impatient sound in his throat. Christine laughed, let him spin her around to tug at the corset laces. In moments it was gone, and she turned back to him, unbuttoned his waistcoat. He skimmed his hands down her bare arms, clasped her about the waist again, and then lifted her up. She made a startled sound, clung to him as he carried her to the bed and laid her down.

"You are so beautiful," he said reverently. She looked up at him, reached for him to join her, needing him close to her again. "My Christine," he murmured, and trailed his fingers down her throat, across the skin bared above the neck of her chemise.

"Erik," she said. "My Erik." He sat on the side of the bed, bent down to remove his shoes and then discarded his waistcoat. His mask faced her, and she wanted to ask him to take it off, wanted to prove to him at last that she had changed, that she wasn't the shallow, naïve girl of so many years before. But he distracted her then, stretched out on the bed beside her and kissed her, rested his hand possessively on her stomach.

She was afraid he would find her changed; her body had altered, both through childbirth and the passage of time. She knew she was still slender and graceful, but she was not the woman Erik had seen before. And yet his touch was reverent, his gaze adoring. He made her feel like she was the most precious thing in the world.

"It was dark, before," he murmured, and his nimble fingers undid the small buttons at the front of her chemise. Her breath caught in her throat as he drew the sleeves off her shoulders, pulled the garment from her body and left her bare. Her cheeks heated but she let him look his fill, then pulled him back to her and kissed him again.

At last she had to speak; at last she had to ask.

"Erik," she said softly, "will you take your mask off?"

He stilled, stared down at her, and then he lifted a hand to touch his white mask. "Why?" he asked her. "You can't want to…to see."

"I love you, Erik," she said, and willed him to believe it. "All of you." It was dark before, he'd reminded her – so she'd felt him, his body and his face, but hadn't seen him. Darkness had covered his features as surely as his mask did now. She wanted to face their future together, and she had to make him understand that.

"Please," she said. "Please trust me."

A moment passed, and another, and at last Erik gave a slow nod. He sat up, turned away from her and removed the mask. The wig followed. He didn't turn back to her and Christine knew she couldn't understand the depths of his pain, the shyness and fear and shame he was probably feeling.

But she could try to heal him, at least a little.

She sat up, reached out and turned his face towards her, looked straight at him. The fear was clear on his face, but she would not reject him.

"I love you," she said again. "Please believe me." And then she stroked her fingers gently down his paper-thin skin, leaned closer and kissed him again. It took a moment, but finally he responded, finally he kissed her back.

He touched her as if afraid she was a dream; as if he couldn't believe she was real and was scared that at any moment she might disappear. Every touch conveyed his love, every look showed his adoration, and he wrung exquisite pleasure from her with ease.

They lay together afterwards, Erik's arms around her and Christine's head resting on his chest. His hand stroked through her hair and she sighed contentedly, closed her eyes. She felt at peace, the guilt she felt over Raoul fading a little, fading enough for her to enjoy being with Erik and being in love with him. It would return, she knew that, but it was enough that she had this, had the memory of this to take with her on those lonely six months that lay ahead.

"Six months is long," Erik murmured then, and Christine lifted her head to look at him.

"Not so long," she said. "And I'll write often, Erik." He smiled a little, the thought clearly pleasing to him – and when she thought of writing to him, of receiving his letters, it made her heart swell. "Gustave will miss you," she added, and rested her head on his chest again.

"I'll miss him."

"And when we come back, we'll be a family," Christine said softly. "You and me, and our son."

"Family," Erik repeated. "I've dreamed of being with you so many times, but I never thought of family." His hand on her hair stilled. "Can it possibly be true?" Christine didn't answer; she'd dreamed the same, and woken to the reality of her choices.

At last Erik's fingers resumed stroking her hair. "You should sleep, Christine," he said. "You're still so tired."

"You'll stay with me?" she asked, and winced a little at revealing her fear. The last time – the only time – they had done this, she had woken up alone, the bed cold beside her. She felt rather than heard Erik's sigh, and he pulled her closer, made sure the blanket covered her sufficiently.

"Yes, Christine," he said quietly, "I will be here."

Comforted, contented, Christine closed her eyes and went to sleep.


	10. Chapter 10

Title: Love Will Still Remain

Rating: M

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' or 'Love Never Dies' does not belong to me.

* * *

><p>The journey from Coney Island to the docks was far too swift for Christine's liking; she sat in the carriage, Gustave opposite and Erik at her side, and felt herself growing more heartsick with each rotation of the carriage wheels.<p>

Erik kept Gustave occupied on the drive, pointing out famous landmarks or interesting features, but his hand kept hold of hers throughout. She was glad of it, glad of the comfort he was trying to give her.

At last – far too soon – they arrived, and Christine leaned forwards, peered out of the window and leaned back again hastily before the gathered crowd of journalists and photographers could see her. She'd hoped to leave America without attracting the attention of the press, who still clamoured for details of Raoul's death. She was sure they could smell a scandal and wanted proof, wanted more to publish than the hints and rumours that she'd seen in the gossip columns over the past week.

She glanced at Erik; he'd seen the crowd as well, and nodded slightly at her. He knew what it meant – knew that they couldn't risk a public farewell, not if she was to return to Paris with her reputation intact. A single photograph could ruin her, if it got back to Charles de Chagny. She was going to have trouble with him even if he did believe that she was…innocent.

But Erik understood. He squeezed her hand gently and then released it, leaned forwards to speak to Gustave.

"We must say goodbye now, Gustave," he said gravely, and Christine almost winced at the desolate look that crossed her son's face. "Or au revoir, perhaps," Erik corrected. "Since we will meet again, and it won't be long before we're reunited."

Gustave looked at him for a moment and then lowered his head. "I don't want to go," he muttered, almost inaudible. "I don't want to leave you." He looked up again, frowning. "I want you to come with us!"

Christine felt helpless; she'd tried to explain to Gustave why it had been decided that Erik could not return to France with them, but she'd been unwilling to tell her son that his newly-discovered father had murdered people, had been sought by the police and would certainly be arrested if he were discovered in Paris once more. Gustave knew the stories, of course – knew that the Opera Ghost had been a murderer – but she was sure he hadn't fully connected the Phantom of the Opera with his father Erik, and she didn't want him to confront that until he was older. Wanted him to retain some little of his youthful innocence.

"You know that isn't possible," said Erik, breaking into her thoughts and saving her from trying to find words for Gustave. "For many reasons." They looked at one another, father and son, and she watched silently. "Will you do something for me, Gustave?" Erik asked at last.

"Yes, of course," said Gustave with an eager nod.

"Will you look after your mother while we are apart?"

Gustave brightened then, proud of the duty laid to him. "Of course," he said. "And – and I'll fill my new book with songs." Erik smiled at him, and then turned to Christine.

This was the moment she had been dreading; the moment when she must say goodbye to Erik. Tears sprang into her eyes, she reached for him blindly and he held her, muttered something that she couldn't quite hear. She clung to him, closed her eyes and bit her lip to keep from crying.

"I know," Erik said. "I know." And he did know – she didn't have to say anything because he knew what she was feeling. The shared burden calmed her a little, but she couldn't let go of him, couldn't force her fingers to relax their grip. "It's not so very long," he murmured. "We'll be together again soon." She nodded, and pulled away enough to look at him, to see the pain in his expression. "Soon," he repeated, and brushed his fingers across her cheek, wiped away a tear.

"Six months," she said, and caught his hand in hers. "I don't know how I shall bear it," she admitted.

"You shall," said Erik. "You must." He smiled a little, but there was no humour in his expression. "We both must." He glanced away from her, across to Gustave, and Christine turned her head to see their son watching them anxiously. She tried to smile, to bear it for his sake. Erik was right – they must bear the separation, and their reunion would be all the sweeter for it.

"I'll send a telegram as soon as we land," she said to Erik, and he nodded. "And write as soon as I can. It will take several weeks to reach you, I think."

"Believe me, Christine, I would wait far longer than a few weeks for a letter from you," he said, and for a moment they smiled at each other.

"I'll write too!" said Gustave, and Erik's smile widened, just for a moment, just for long enough that Christine could see how much pleasure Gustave's letters would bring him.

She pressed close to him again, kissed him, and tried to commit the feeling of it to memory. She raised her hands to cup his cheeks, flesh and leather under her fingers, but she made no attempt to unmask him, not now.

"I love you," she murmured, when at last they had to part.

"And I love you," he said. He glanced out of the carriage window and she followed his gaze, saw the clock set above the customs building. "It's time, Christine."

Christine took a deep breath, exhaled slowly and wiped away the tears from her cheeks. "Alright," she said. "Gustave?"

"We'll be alright, Mother," said Gustave, and she smiled at him, smiled at his earnest desire to make her feel better.

"Yes," she agreed. "I'm sure we will be." She made sure her hat was straight and looked one last time at Erik. "Don't wait until the ship's gone," she said to him. "I can't bear the thought of you sitting here waiting for us to go."

His smile was slight but real, and he nodded. "If you like," he said. "I confess, it would not be easy." He turned to Gustave, hesitantly held his arms out. Gustave slid into his embrace easily, and Christine could see how tightly he held onto Erik. He had already grown to care for Erik more deeply than she could have hoped for.

Erik released Gustave, gave her one last brief glance and then turned away. "Go," he said, voice thick. "Go quickly."

Christine nodded, opened the carriage door and ushered Gustave out. She understood his command, understood that prolonging it any further would only increase his hurt, and hers too. Gustave seemed to sense it, or at least he didn't question why Erik had sent them away so abruptly; he followed close behind Christine as she went to the entrance of the customs house, where Elise was waiting for them.

Once they were aboard and installed in their suite, Gustave asked to go on deck to watch as the ship left port.

"I know he won't be there," he said Christine, "but it was so exciting seeing New York when we arrived. I want to say goodbye to it." He looked up at her, a determined tilt to his chin that she recognised. She smiled faintly, nodded to him.

"Alright, Gustave," she said. "But Elise must go with you. I don't want you to be alone." Gustave looked as though he wanted to argue, and she knew what he was thinking – that ten years was far too old to be escorted in that way. But she was still loathe to allow him to be alone, to be without someone. The memory of that night, that awful night, was still too vivid.

Gustave nodded, and Elise left off unpacking to accompany him out of the suite. Christine waited until the door was shut and then sank into a chair, covered her face with her hands. Her breathing came in great ragged gasps but she didn't cry. She felt too empty for that.

She would have to be stronger, soon, would have to conceal her grief at being parted from Erik. She could write to him, and would do so often, but for Charles de Chagny, for Raoul's sister Heléne – for everyone in Paris except Gustave – she must be a grieving widow.

But Christine was an actress; she had acted a part for ten years, and she could certainly act a different part for six months.

It would be harder for Gustave, she knew, and although she had spoken to him about the need to keep Erik out of their conversation when amongst others, she wasn't sure he would be able to do so entirely. He was only ten, and had become so fond of Erik.

She would speak to him again, but not yet – not until the end of the journey, she decided. That would be soon enough.

Christine rose then, went to the suite's master bedroom. She needed to be busy, and although Elise would no doubt disapprove, unpacking would distract her, at least a little. Some of her clothes had already been placed in drawers or the closet, her jewellery box was out on the little dressing table. There was another box on the table as well, smaller – and a letter, addressed to her in Erik's handwriting.

She paused before opening it, counted her breaths in and out, willed herself to be in control of her emotions. Erik must have placed it in her luggage this morning, or perhaps asked Elise to do it for him.

'My dear Christine,' the letter began, 'You asked me last night to offer you a ring. I know you cannot wear it, and I did not want you to conceal it. But I find I cannot let you go without it, and my promise to you that when you return, if you are ready, I wish nothing more than for us to marry.'

Christine put the letter down, opened the box and looked for a long moment at the ring inside. She had worn a ring concealed on a chain around her neck once before – had concealed her engagement to Raoul from Erik, from everyone except Madame Giry and Meg. To do the same now felt wrong; she would hide her engagement now, but she didn't think she could bring herself to wear Erik's ring the same way. It felt like an insult to both men.

No, she decided, the ring would stay in its box. And yet she couldn't resist taking off her wedding ring and trying Erik's ring on. It still fit her, just as it had ten years before when Erik had forced it onto her finger. She returned to the letter, the glint of the diamond distracting only a little from Erik's words.

'I am filled with more hope and happiness than I have ever felt, and I shall count the days until your return. Your days will be more difficult, I think. Remember that I love you and our son, and be as strong as I know you can be. Yours, always, Erik.'

Christine found herself smiling, and she looked at the ring on her finger again. Erik was right – her days would be difficult, but she would get through them, as would Gustave. And in six months they would be reunited, and she would at last become Erik's wife. The wrongs of the past ten years would be made right.

The motion of the ship changed, the thrum of the engines barely perceptible, and as the ship began its departure, Christine put the ring back in its box, folded Erik's letter, and returned to unpacking.


	11. Chapter 11

Title: Love Will Still Remain

Rating: M

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' or 'Love Never Dies' does not belong to me.

* * *

><p>"Are you glad to be back, Mother?" Gustave asked, leaning on her desk and fiddling, as he always did, with her paperweight. Christine took it out of his hands and put it firmly back on the stack of documents she had taken from Raoul's study to look through, and Gustave pouted briefly.<p>

"I suppose so," she said, in response to his question. She glanced at the door, but Gustave had shut it, and they were alone in the library. "And you, Gustave?"

"I…I should be happy," he said slowly. "But I…" He glanced around as well, and she was heartened by his caution even as the need for it saddened her. "I miss Erik," he confided then. "And…I miss Father."

Christine nodded; she understood. Here in the house they had lived in together, Raoul's loss was keenly felt. His study especially, all his papers left neat but as if he was going to return to them. His bedroom, his clothes hanging in the wardrobe. Everywhere the familiar traces of him, the constant reminder that he was gone.

Gustave seemed to be managing his grief through music; he spent most of his days in the drawing room where the piano was, practicing or writing melodies. It concerned Christine, a little, and she tried to encourage him to go outside, to enjoy the last of the summer before autumn came. It was so like Erik, though – so much so that she couldn't quite bring herself to really forbid him from going to the piano.

Christine herself was keeping busy, and there was much to be busy with. They had only been back a few days, but she had already written to Raoul's creditors and paid off his debts with the overly-generous fee Erik had given her for singing in his theatre on Coney Island. It was such a relief to know that there would be no more debts, no more letters demanding payment or threatening repercussions. No more worrying about finding the money to keep up appearances, as Raoul had insisted on, no worries about managing to pay the servants.

"Mother?"

Christine shook herself, found Gustave frowning at her and realised she'd missed what he'd been saying.

"I'm sorry, Gustave," she apologised quickly. "I haven't been sleeping well."

"You don't look well, Mother," he said, still frowning. "Are you still ill? I thought it was just seasickness." Christine had been sick throughout their journey back to France; she wasn't prone to seasickness, or to sickness of any sort whilst travelling, but she'd had no other explanation. But the sickness had continued, a nausea that began in the early hours of the morning and didn't cease until well past the midday meal.

There was a hope in Christine's heart, a tiny fluttering that she had barely dared think about lest she be disappointed. As if in thinking it, she would destroy the possibility.

But she had been ill like this before. For several months at the start of her pregnancy with Gustave, and again for the two children she had miscarried.

"Mother," said Gustave impatiently, "you're not listening to me. You always tell me not to do that."

She summoned a smile, nodded her head. "I know. Will you forgive me?" She reached out again to stop him fiddling with the paperweight. "I'm sure it will pass, Gustave. I promise to call for the doctor if it worsens."

"Alright," he said. "If you promise." He turned to go, and then returned to the desk. "Is Aunt Heléne really coming to stay? I wish she wasn't. It's much nicer when it's just us."

"Gustave," laughed Christine, "that's perfectly horrid. I hope you won't be rude to her."

"Of course not," said Gustave, with an expressive roll of his eyes. "But I _do_ wish it was just us. I hate not being able to talk about Erik with people." He crossed to the door and left the room, leaving the door ajar so she could hear him singing to himself as he wandered away.

Christine looked back down at the papers she had been reading, tried to concentrate on the important information within. The debtors were paid, but the estate was still mortgaged, and Christine had written to Raoul's agent, asking for his advice in selling the estate entirely. They would still have the town house in Paris, and she had some idea of entrusting it to Heléne until Gustave was of age and could decide for himself whether he wanted to live in Paris.

It was all so complicated, made more so by the way her actions seemed inexplicable to those around her; she could not explain that she and Gustave would be leaving to be with Erik. She hadn't needed to fabricate an excuse in her letter to Monsieur Bourtin, he was far too professional to make a personal enquiry unless it was relevant, but Heléne de Chagny would be here soon and Christine had still to think of a proper reason to give for her decision to emigrate.

And Charles de Chagny would be vehement in his disapproval. He was a traditionalist, and the very idea of the young Comte de Chagny – as Gustave now was – leaving France to grow up in America, of all places, would scandalise him.

But Christine had lived with his disapproval for over ten years – since Raoul had declared his intent to marry her. She could live with it for a few months longer.

Footsteps approached the library; she looked up to see Lambert, the butler, standing just inside the library door.

"Lady Heléne de Chagny," he announced, and stepped back as Heléne came past him, entered the room and crossed to Christine.

"My dear," she said. "Am I early? Do forgive me. I've been so anxious about you."

Christine smiled, rose and accepted Heléne's embrace. "Bonsoir, Heléne. Thank you; I'm alright." She kissed Heléne's cheek. "It's good to see you." Heléne, unlike her uncle Charles, had been her friend for many years, and a source of great support in the face of Raoul's worsening habits, which had caused the siblings to argue on more than one occasion.

"I'm sure you're not alright," said Heléne, and she looked critically at Christine. "You look tired. Oh my dear, what an awful thing to happen. And Gustave? How is he?"

Christine found herself without words for a moment, and then she shrugged lightly. "I think he is as to be expected," she said, and looked away from Heléne, her vision blurring with tears. She blinked them away, almost angry with herself. "He…he was there, he saw it happen," she added at last. "He hasn't really spoken about that."

Heléne was silent, and Christine saw tears in her eyes as well.

"That poor child," she said at last. "Oh Christine. And you were alone."

"We had each other," said Christine, and she gestured for Heléne to join her on the library's sofa. "I'd take you through to the drawing room, but I believe Gustave is there," she explained.

"Yes, I heard the piano as I came in," said Heléne with a nod. "He has improved since I last heard him." She hesitated, then continued. "Christine, can you tell me what happened? Uncle Charles showed me your telegram, and there was something in the newspapers about it, of course, but no details."

Christine closed her eyes briefly, remembered Meg with the gun, remembered her terror for Gustave, remembered Raoul's blood on her hands.

"I'm sorry," said Heléne, awkward, and Christine opened her eyes again, looked at her sister-in-law. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked."

"No," Christine said softly, "no, it's alright." She took a deep breath, expelled it, tried to decide how much she could explain. So much of it was so deeply personal, so closely bound with things she needed to keep from Heléne. She would have to lie, or at least omit truths. "It was after my performance," she said at last. "The – the lead performer there, she was angry, she said it should have been her singing the aria. She took Gustave." She shook her head, twisted her fingers together in her lap. "We – we went after her, and I think she was about to give up the gun, but then…then she grew angry again."

She looked at Heléne, knew that this final part could not be withheld from Raoul's sister. "She meant the bullet for me," she said, "but Raoul…got between us."

"My God," murmured Heléne, pale and stricken. "My God, Christine."

"I think," said Christine, and her voice seemed distant, "I think the worst part was having to bury him there. Away from his family."

They were silent then, and Heléne reached out, took Christine's hand and squeezed it tightly. And suddenly Christine wished she could tell Heléne everything, wished she could share and confide in the woman who had, over the past decade, become like a sister to her. She wished she could share the love and happiness that had entered her life, wanted to be able to explain why she was emigrating and why she was taking Gustave away from France.

It was impossible; and yet she wished.

"There'll be a memorial at the service on Sunday," she said, breaking the silence. "And Lord Charles will be here." Heléne made such an amusing face that Christine had to laugh, and Heléne joined in. "I'm not looking forward to it," Christine admitted. "There are…things I need to discuss with you first."

Heléne looked at her shrewdly, and nodded. "Yes, I thought there might be," she said. "Shall we talk now, or would you rather wait until after supper?"

Christine rubbed a hand across her eyes tiredly. "I don't intend to stay in France," she said, knowing it would be easier once she'd said it.

Heléne said nothing; she rose and turned to look out of the window, her face a blank that Christine couldn't read.

"You know Raoul and I weren't happy," Christine continued. "I cannot stay here, or in the house in Paris. I've already spoken to the agent, Monsieur Bourtin, and the estate is mortgaged so heavily the only way out is to sell it."

Heléne swung around, stared at her. "As bad as that? I didn't know."

"Neither did I," Christine had to admit. That Raoul's debts had been large, she had known, and also that a little money was owing to the bank on the mortgage, but not the amount – not that the estate was all but owned by the banks. She had to wonder how much gambling Raoul had done that she _hadn__'__t_ known about, how much drinking. Whether other things had gone on as well. "So I will sell it, and repay the bank," she continued.

"Where will you go, then?" Heléne asked, returning to the sofa. "Will – forgive me, I'm being indelicate, but will there be enough money to live on?"

"Enough," Christine nodded. "And…we will go back to New York." She steeled herself for Heléne's reaction, dreaded her sister-in-law's censure or disbelief.

But Heléne was neither disbelieving nor disapproving; she looked at Christine curiously, her lips pursed as she thought. When she spoke, it was slowly and deliberately.

"Christine," she said, "I'm not a fool. I know there is something you're not saying. Perhaps many things." Christine felt herself flushing, and she couldn't meet Heléne's gaze. "I'm not asking you to tell me," Heléne went on, "but I know how unhappy you were. I…I hope you don't think I judge you for that. Or for any choices you make now to secure your happiness in the future."

Christine felt tears spring to her eyes again, felt as though a weight had been lifted. There was still Charles to face, still many decisions to be made, and none of it would be easy. But Heléne, at least, was supporting her.

"Now," said Heléne briskly, "let me see Gustave before the dressing bell sounds. And put your worries from your mind for tonight, at least. Tomorrow we can face them together."


	12. Chapter 12

Title: Love Will Still Remain

Rating: M

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' or 'Love Never Dies' does not belong to me.

* * *

><p>"I cannot believe what you're saying," stormed Charles de Chagny, tall and looming before her. Christine was glad the desk separated them; although Charles had never been a violent man, he was so angry now, and she was feeling ill enough to feel intimidated by it, at least a little. "Leave France? Sell the estate? Preposterous! Gustave is the Comte now, he has a duty to –"<p>

"Uncle, you can see the figures for yourself," interrupted Heléne, serene at Christine's side. "I can't think how Raoul let things degenerate into such a state."

"Don't speak ill of the dead," said Charles, practically snarling at her.

"Oh stop it," Christine said, and almost slammed her hand down on the desk. "Dead or not, something went badly wrong and I knew nothing of it. There is simply no option." She looked up at him, watched his gaze flicker down to the papers she had shown him. "Perhaps it started before Raoul inherited," she said then, although she felt it was probably too generous to Raoul's memory. She remembered Philippe, although he had died quite soon after her wedding to Raoul. Like Charles, he had disapproved of the marriage, but he had at least tried to be courteous to her – and she was certain he had never been extravagant.

No, she was sure the estate had been carefully managed before then. The agent's figures had showed a small mortgage dating back several decades, but they also showed that Philippe had been working, slowly, to pay it off. Christine suspected the mortgage had been taken out by Raoul's father, Charles' elder brother.

"You know many of our friends have had to do the same," Heléne said quietly. "Things have changed, Uncle. Estates are expensive."

Charles glanced at his niece, then he sighed, shook his head and sat down stiffly. "Even if I could accept the sale of the estate," he said, "that would be one thing. It is quite another, this ridiculous suggestion of leaving France."

Christine leaned back in her chair, closed her eyes for a moment. She was tired, and this fight was every bit as difficult as she'd anticipated. She'd spent most of the night trying not to be sick, and the memorial had been more distressing than she'd expected, for both herself and for Gustave

"I don't need you to accept it," she said at last. "You have no claim on me, Uncle." She looked at him, saw him prepare to speak again. "I understand your concerns for Gustave," she continued, "but I must do what I think is best."

"He is the Comte de Chagny," said Charles, condemnation in his voice and his expression. "The last in a noble line. He must –"

"He is my child," said Christine coldly. "Are you suggesting you are in a better position to decide his future happiness than I?" Charles was silent; she had scored a hit. Something drove her to continue – perhaps ten years of silence. "Or maybe you simply believe I am…unsuitable," she said, and from his badly-concealed flinch could see that thought had not been far from his mind. Unsuitable as a wife, unsuitable as a mother for the de Chagny line.

"Please let's not argue," said Heléne, "not today." It was a timely intervention, and Christine nodded, straightened and reached to tidy the papers that Charles had left in disarray.

"Heléne is right," she said. "Raoul…Raoul would not have liked it."

The reminder of his nephew, the reminder that today had been his memorial service, seemed to be enough to make Charles let go of his outrage, at least for now. He gave a stiff nod.

"Very well," he said, voice gruff. "I suppose I must concede, at least on the sale. I – the figures are astounding. I should never have believed it of Raoul." He lifted his hand as if to rub his eyes, but stopped, looked at Christine again. "But you must see why I cannot support this ludicrous suggestion of leaving France."

Christine sighed, spread her hands. "I…I don't think I can ever fully understand your point of view, Uncle," she said. Heléne opened her mouth to speak, but Christine shook her head. "I am not noble," she said, very deliberately. "I was not born to it, and I know I am not what you wanted for Raoul, but there it is. I can never understand it as you think I should."

Charles cleared his throat, but Christine shook her head again.

"No," she said. "Heléne is right. Any further discussion will only cause argument, and I will not allow that. Not today." She rose, glanced at Heléne . "You will excuse me," she said, "I need some fresh air."

She didn't wait for a response; she left the library, went through the house to the side door that faced onto the lawn and, further from the house, the rose garden. She escaped, hurried down the lawn and into the rose garden.

It was cool today, the wind had a biting edge that heralded the end of summer and the start of winter. The rose garden was almost bare of blossoms, but it was secluded, concealed from the house by a high hedge, and it was beautiful despite the lack of colour. It was Christine's favourite part of the gardens, and now she sank down onto a stone bench, lifted her hands to cover her eyes and took several deep breaths.

She missed Raoul. She missed his humour, the way he had smiled at her, and she missed his quiet support. Even after their marriage had become difficult, even when their conversation was stilted, when she had kept Gustave out of his father's way and tried to conceal bruises – even then, he had never even hinted that she was not as she should be. That he had made a mistake by marrying a singer, rather than a woman of his own rank.

He had treated her as if she were born to the life she had led for the past ten years – as if she were more than just a young opera singer, thrust into a world she'd known nothing about.

And oh, she missed Erik. She missed him as if part of her heart were missing. She missed him more now than ever before. More than during the long silence, after she had unmasked him, when she had feared she would never see him again; more than those early days as Raoul's wife, when she had known she was with child and _known_ it was not Raoul's.

It seemed impossible. She would see him again, after all, which she had never known before. She'd never had that certainty. And yet she felt as though the greater part of her had been left in New York.

Christine lowered her hands, touched her abdomen. Perhaps that was it, she reflected. With every day that passed, she grew more certain that she was carrying Erik's child again. She wanted to share it with him, wanted him to be there for the first signs of it – wanted him to see her figure slowly swelling, to feel the first kicks of the child within.

To know that they had created another life together.

"Mother? Mother, are you out here?"

"Yes, Gustave, I'm here," Christine called, and in a moment Gustave came through the archway in the hedge, clothes and hair in disarray and a scowl on his face. He ran towards her, flung himself into her arms so hard that she was knocked against the back of the bench.

"Gustave, what on earth?" she asked, hugging him close and smoothing his hair down. "What's wrong?"

"I hate Uncle Charles," said Gustave, his words muffled as he pressed his face against her. "I don't want to stay here. I want to go back to be with Erik!"

The cold Christine felt had nothing to do with the weather. That Charles had approached Gustave, tried to convince him to stay, to go against her wishes and Gustave's own desire, was beyond what she could have expected of him. It was despicable, it was sly and underhand, and it had clearly distressed Gustave.

"We're not staying here, darling," she said, and forced herself to sound calm and reassuring. "It's just a few months, you know that."

"But he said –"

"I don't care what he said," said Christine, almost snapping, and Gustave pulled away, frowned at her. She gentled her tone, offered him a smile. "Nobody matters except you and I, and Erik," she told him. "Nobody is going to stop us going back to him."

"Promise," said Gustave insistently.

"Gustave, I promise," Christine said, and kissed his forehead. "In a little under six months we will be back with him, and we'll start a new life." Gustave nodded, still upset, and she hugged him tightly again. "It will be alright, Gustave. Uncle Charles is only here for another night, and Heléne goes tomorrow too. It will be just us again."

"Alright," said Gustave, leaning against her, his head on her shoulder. "Mother, do I have to start lessons again? Since it's not so very long 'til we're leaving."

Christine laughed, gently pushed him away from her so she could look at him. "Now, Gustave, you know you must. You'll go to school in New York, you know." He scowled, but it looked almost comical and she smiled. "You were hoping to spend all day long playing music," she guessed. "I'm afraid not, my darling."

"But Mother –"

"No buts," she said quickly, and Gustave closed his mouth, sulked even more. "Lessons will resume tomorrow as planned." She paused, waited to see if he had any further objections. "I know you love music," she continued, "but you mustn't be ignorant, Gustave. You know, your fa– Erik, I mean." She stopped, a little flustered, but Gustave took her hand.

"It's alright, Mother," he said, far too grave for such a little boy. "You can call him my father. I don't mind."

Reassured, Christine squeezed his hand. "Your father is very clever," she said softly. "He mainly taught himself, I believe. He would not want you to be uneducated."

Gustave was silent, bit his lip and looked away from her. Finally he huffed a sigh, nodded with a show of reluctance.

"Alright," he agreed. "I suppose I have to." Christine nodded approvingly, reached to straighten his clothing. "Do I have to sit up for supper tonight?" he asked then. "Since Aunt Heléne and Uncle Charles are here?"

"No," she said, smiling. "No, it will be far too late for you, after such a long day. I think you'd better have an early supper upstairs."

"Good," said Gustave emphatically, and she laughed again, knew she should reprimand him for his attitude towards his great-uncle but simply couldn't bring herself to be strict. "Will you be coming in soon, Mother? It's getting cold." He frowned at her, attempting to be stern. "You haven't been well. You shouldn't stay out here."

"I'll come in just a moment," she promised, and he stared at her for a moment longer before nodding. He pulled away from her, turned and left the rose garden at a slower pace than before. She watched him go, and then looked down at her flat stomach, pressed a hand over her abdomen.

It was too early to write to him, too soon to be sure, and she had miscarried twice – she had been warned by a doctor, after the second lost child, that it was highly likely she might never again bear a child to full term.

And yet she couldn't help but wonder whether she would be able to carry this child, Erik's child, as she had Gustave.

No, she could not tell him now. She couldn't – wouldn't – give him that hope until she was absolutely sure, until the riskiest time was over and the odds swung in her favour. It would be too cruel, and she had been far too cruel to him over the years as it was.

She would keep the news from him, and if she was right – if she was _right_ and Erik's child could grow within her safely…

She would tell him then. When it was safe. When she was confident that bad news would not follow the good.


	13. Chapter 13

Title: Love Will Still Remain

Rating: M

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' or 'Love Never Dies' does not belong to me.

* * *

><p>My dearest Christine,<p>

It feels very empty here without you and Gustave. It's strange; I did not have you for many days, and yet without you I am so very alone.

Perhaps it doesn't help that the season here on Coney Island is over. You can perhaps imagine how little I like the cacophony and frantic busyness of the summer season, when the whole of society seems to descend upon Phantasma. I have tended to leave as much as possible to Madame Giry, but there are always demands upon my time. I should not complain of it; I have worked hard to create this place, and admit to taking pride in how much I have accomplished in such a relatively short period of time. But I am relieved when the hordes depart. We do not close entirely over the winter, of course; there is a circus here, which has proved very popular over the winter months, and the variety show stays open. But it is quieter, and I have more time to think.

If I believed you were constantly in my thoughts before our reunion, I was mistaken. It seems now that you are in my every moment, waking and sleeping – you and our son. You have given me such a gift, Christine. I wonder if you even know how incredible it is to me that he is real. That perfect, beautiful boy is my son. It is more than I ever dared dream of. And you will both be coming back to me.

There is so much I wish to share with you. So many things of my life in the past ten years, and before then. There is much I would have told you before, had things been different. And there is also much I want to know of your life, and Gustave's. I know so little about him – except for his love of music, of course.

But there will be time. We will have so much time, together.

Do you remember when you first came to the Opera Populaire? You were so young then, young and alone. I knew at once that you were different, special. I had been alone as well, for so many years. Madame Giry knew I was there, of course, she took my messages to the managers, occasionally acquired things for me if I could not do so myself. I had lived in the house across the lake for five years when you arrived. You were nine years old, and I more than a decade older. You used to cry yourself to sleep at night, until I began to sing to you.

Gustave reminds me of you. He has your smile, and your curiosity. When he is pleased, he lights up the room just as you do. And the music he makes…Christine, how can I explain this to you? You understand a little, I know, but for me music is something different. Essential. I had never found anyone like me before, who hears and feels the music as I do. But Gustave is like me. He sees the world as I do.

I have enclosed a letter for him. I wasn't sure at first whether he would want a letter from me, but then at our parting he was so distraught that I thought perhaps a correspondence would help. It will give us an opportunity to get to know each other a little better, at least. But please assure him he should feel no obligation to write back to me.

It occurs to me that I do not know his birthday. I can guess the approximate date, of course – I know it falls in late April or early May. Another of the many things I must learn.

The sun is rising. I can see it from where I am seated, at my desk in the workroom. I have spent the greater part of the night playing music and writing this letter. I find sleep difficult to find at the moment, and music comforts me during your absence. It has only been a few days – you will have landed in France, but only just. We will bear the six months, but it is lonely without you.

From things you said (or perhaps the things you avoided saying), I suspect your first days and weeks in France will not be painless. You spoke of Charles de Chagny with distaste, and if he is anything like nobles I have encountered in the past, he will not be an easy man to deal with. I hope you and Gustave emerge from it unscathed. I know it will not be easy. Remember that I love you, and that you have always been stronger than you think you are.

I will conclude this letter now, so it may go in the post today and leave New York tomorrow. It should take no longer than two weeks to reach you, I think.

Yours, always, Erik.

* * *

><p>Dear Gustave,<p>

I have started this letter to you, and now find myself at a loss for words. Not because I do not love you (you must not ever doubt that, Gustave), but because I know you so little still. And of course you hardly know me.

Perhaps that is a place to start: I can tell you of myself, at least a little. There is much that I have never shared with anyone, things that are not suitable for a boy, and also things that I should like to talk about with your mother before anyone else. But there are things I can tell you, and perhaps you will write back and tell me things about yourself.

You know the most important things about me: that I love your mother dearly, and that I love music. But you know I am understating it. I need music, it is an essential part of me – as it is of you, I suspect. I know you see the world the way I do, and you hear music in your head as I do.

It is a great gift, Gustave, but it can be difficult. If you are like me, there will be times you want to do nothing but play or compose. Other demands on your time become distractions. I cannot say I have always taken care of myself. When I was living beneath the Opera Populaire, alone, I had nobody to care for me (as you have your mother to care for you), and so sometimes I went several days without eating or sleeping.

Perhaps I should not have said that. Your mother might think I am encouraging you, but that isn't my intention. I merely wanted to explain that I understand the music in your head.

I feel I could spend this letter purely asking questions of you: do you go to school or have a tutor? What are your favourite books or hobbies? Do you have many friends, will you be sad to leave them?

I wonder if you would do something for me. I have no photograph of you. Would it be too much to ask you to send me one? I have pictures and photographs of your mother, but none of you. It would mean a great deal to me.

I hope you are remembering your promise to take care of your mother, and that you are being good for her. I hope, too, that you are enjoying your manuscript book. I am greatly looking forward to hearing your compositions, when you return.

Your loving father,

Erik

* * *

><p>My Erik,<p>

I finally have a moment to stop, breathe, and sit down at last to write to you. The past few days since we arrived back have been so full and busy, and all my spare moments have been taken up with Gustave, who has been dejected and gloomy since we returned.

But we are both well; I assure you of that first. Our voyage was uneventful, and we arrived at the estate late on Monday evening. Gustave was quite exhausted, as was I, but we have both recovered well.

It feels strange to be here again, after so much has changed. It was barely a month ago that we left, and now we are back. Raoul is dead, and soon we will leave this place forever. I wish the clock would speed up, but even so I am grateful for this time. I must say goodbye to the life I have lived for ten years, and to all my memories (both of here and of Paris). I look forward eagerly to creating new ones with you, but nevertheless, I think I need some time to say goodbye.

I have already settled many of the debts that Raoul left. The estate is heavily mortgaged, which I had not realised, but it is making things easier, if anything. I had worried about how Heléne and Charles would take it, but there can be no arguments now, no attempts to dissuade me. The estate would have to be sold even if we weren't coming back to you. No matter what Charles de Chagny thinks of me, he cannot dispute the facts.

I have begun the arduous task of sorting through the house, deciding which things must be sold, which must be stored and which we will want to bring with us. I have told Charles that anything he considers essential to his family's history must, of course, go to him, and Heléne will take a few things also. The estate's agent is preparing to set in motion the auction. I plan for us to move to Paris very quickly. I don't think either of us want to be here for long. In Paris there are more distractions – I can take Gustave to museums and galleries, and the theatre. Here in the country there is very little to take away from Raoul's absence.

And yours. Oh Erik, I don't think I can express how I miss you. And I'm not sure I should try; the attempt might just make it worse for both of us. Gustave misses you keenly also, he speaks of you whenever we are alone together. And more and more he turns to music for solace. He spends hours at the piano, and no longer seems bored by the basic practicing his teacher insists on.

He turns to music: meanwhile I keep my mind occupied with all the things that must be done. We both distract ourselves in different ways.

There are practical things I should have asked you before we came away, but we were both too caught up in our happiness. And perhaps they have only occurred to me now I am back to the life that has been mine for ten years. Your rooms at the top of the hotel are lovely, and suit you very well, but you will admit they are not appropriate for a family. And it had been planned that Gustave would go away to school when he turns eleven. It was not my wish, but all the de Chagny men have gone to the same school, and I could not oppose Raoul in it. I do not wish to be parted from him (nor, I think, will you), but he must be educated.

He, of course, wants little more than to play his music. He is so very like you at times, Erik. I have had to conceal it from everyone for so long I had almost allowed myself to ignore it, but he is so much your son.

You, of course, will say he is more like me in everything but his music. But he is like you in other ways (not least of which – you will allow me to say it? – is your shared temper). And the line of his jaw, his eyes, they are yours.

My nights are lonely now. Raoul and I had not often shared a bed regularly in the last few years, but it is not his presence I yearn for. I miss you beside me, even after only one night. I wake in the morning with your name on my lips, I reach for you during the nights. My dreams are full of you, and it fills me with as much joy as sadness. No matter how badly I miss you now (and I missed you before – please don't doubt that I missed you before), I know that we will be reunited and then I will be with you always.

I look at my ring often, kept safe in my jewellery box; when I return to you, I will come as your bride.

And now the hour grows late, and I must retire to bed. Tomorrow Gustave's tutor returns, and he could not be more unhappy at the prospect of resuming lessons!

With all my love,

Your Christine.

P.S. If, as I suspect, you have written to me, your letter will no doubt cross paths mid-Atlantic with this one. I await its arrival eagerly.

* * *

><p>Dear Erik,<p>

I promised I would write to you, so I am. Mother says I must write a proper letter and not scribble, but I have ink all over my fingers so I'm sorry if this smudges.

I have been playing lots of music, but Mother makes me go and play outside as well. She says it's going to be too cold soon. I like going down to the stream and fishing, so I don't mind very much, but when I'm playing the piano I don't think so much.

Lessons start again tomorrow. My tutor is quite nice, but rather strict. Mother says you're very clever, so I must do my best. I think it's going to be easier to try hard for you than it was for Father. I like some things, like mathematics, but I don't like history very much. There are so many dates to remember. And it's lonely by myself. I don't mind all the time, and anyway Mother says I'll be going to school when we come back to New York to live with you. My English is quite good but my tutor's going to give me extra English lessons so I won't struggle in school.

Mother says it isn't very long until we come back but it feels like forever. There's months before Christmas and then we won't be leaving until the end of February. And everything's strange here. Uncle Charles is angry, and Aunt Heléne keeps watching me and Mother's so sad. I hate that most of all. I wish she could be happy again.

I've got ink all over the paper, and now Mother's calling for the letter so she can post them, so I don't have time to write it out neatly. You don't mind, do you?

Gustave

* * *

><p>Over halfway through, woo!<p> 


	14. Chapter 14

Title: Love Will Still Remain

Rating: M

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' or 'Love Never Dies' does not belong to me.

* * *

><p>"Madame Giry, stay for a moment."<p>

She turned in the doorway, and Fleck and Squelch paused as well before Erik waved them away. They'd spent the past hour going over the forthcoming Christmas programme for Phantasma's theatre and circus, but what he had to speak to Madame Giry about had nothing to do with Phantasma.

Madame Giry returned to her seat on the other side of his desk, leaned her cane against her chair. She was pale and tired, had aged more in the last three months than she had in the years before, and he couldn't blame her – couldn't harbour anger towards her, because he'd seen Meg, had seen how her child had been so utterly broken that nobody could ever hope to fix her.

Couldn't blame her when so much of the blame lay with himself.

"How are you?" he asked, without quite meaning to, and she looked surprised, lifted an eyebrow and tilted her head slightly.

"Fine," she said shortly. Then, when he didn't look at her, she conceded a little. "A little tired," she said. "But you didn't ask me to wait to inquire after my health."

"No," Erik said, and he leaned back in his chair, avoided looking at her. "I need your help." She said nothing, and he sighed. "Perhaps not. I…have no wish to impose on you more than I already have over the years."

Madame Giry sighed also, lifted a hand and rubbed her eyes in an uncharacteristic show of weakness. "Erik, I have only ever tried to be your friend," she said wearily. "Believe it or not, I do care for your happiness."

He looked at her then, nodded slowly. "I know," he said. "And you must know I never meant harm to you or Meg." She glanced away; her hands were trembling. They had not spoken of Meg since her trial, since she had been sentenced to life in the sanatorium, and Erik could see that for Madame Giry, it was still a subject too sensitive, too hurtful.

"So," she said, just before the silence became too long, too painful, "what is it you need my help with?"

"I…need a house," he said. "For when Christine and Gustave return." He sifted through the papers on the desk to find the letter Christine had sent him, two months ago when she had first left. "I should perhaps have begun making enquiries earlier, but…"

"Of course," said Madame Giry briskly. "You would like me to find some suitable places?"

"Somewhere outside the city," said Erik, nodding. "Not too far, but not in the city itself. I'll need to be able to get here, of course, and there must be a school nearby for Gustave." He opened a drawer, withdrew a list of requirements he had made. There must be room for the three of them, and space for his music, and he was toying with the idea of buying a motor car for his journeys to the city, and so there must be space to store it.

Her smile was thin, but present. "I'm sure something will present itself. I will begin looking at once, if you wish. I presume you wish it all to be settled for when they return in February?"

"That would be preferable," he agreed. They would already have packed up and moved twice by the time they arrived – from the estate to Paris, and from Paris to New York – and he wanted them to be able to settle into their new home as quickly as possible.

"Well, I'll see what I can find," said Madame Giry, taking the list from him, glancing over it with a raised eyebrow. "May I assume you are indifferent to price?" He didn't bother to reply; she knew that he would demand the best for his family, and he had the money to pay for it. "Very well." She paused, folded the paper crisply and tucked it into a pocket. "It's a shame they won't be here for Christmas," she commented then, not quite looking at him.

It was an olive branch, and Erik knew he would be a fool not to take it. As bitter as she had become over recent years, Antoinette Giry had been his ally – and, perhaps, his friend – for longer than anyone else. And she was practically Christine's mother, had raised her after her father's death, and he knew that ten years' separation had done little to diminish Christine's love for the older woman.

"Yes," he said at last. "Yes, it is. But they need the time to wind up their affairs. And we will have more holidays together." He took a moment to think of that, to allow the happy thought to fill him. Christmases and birthdays and other celebrations, they would share them all. His family.

"Try not to spoil him," was Madame Giry's practical advice. "Although if I'm honest, he seemed a delightful boy. I could easily have imagined that Christine might spoil him, but she's done well." For Madame Giry it was high praise, and Erik couldn't suppress a smile, both at the compliment to his Christine and at the thought of his son.

"Well," she said then, "if there's nothing else…"

"No, nothing else," he said, returning his attention to her. "Thank you."

"It will take time," she warned him, collecting her cane and rising. "And you will have to view the properties yourself, once I have found them." She gave him one last look, and then turned to leave.

"Madame Giry – Antoinette," he said, standing up and moving around the desk. She paused, glanced at him with an eyebrow raised in mute query. "Thank you," he said again, and she nodded but said nothing, left the room and closed the door behind.

Erik waited for a moment, let the silence settle, and then he went to the staircase, ascended to his workroom. He started towards the piano, but then detoured to the fireplace. November was about to become December, and it was cold in the workroom, the fire had been neglected for several hours. Once it was revitalised he went to the instrument, sat on the bench but didn't play. Instead he looked at the photographs on the music stand, photographs of Gustave and Christine.

He had asked Gustave for a photograph, but Christine had given him more than one – she had sent over a dozen, some old and showing Gustave in various stages of childhood, and some clearly new, of Christine and Gustave together.

He gazed at them hungrily now. It had been three months since they had gone back to France; three long, lonely months, another three before they returned to him. They smiled up at him from the photograph, his family – his beautiful Christine and their perfect son.

Perfect. He reached out to touch the image, then rested his hands on the piano keys and played idly. He was whole, unscarred, his face unmarred by the blight that Erik had been born with.

If ever Erik had thought of children before Christine had returned to his life, if he'd ever dared dream that he might have them, the thought had always been bitter. He had always assumed any children of his would be cursed as he was, would have some sign of his deformity.

And yet he could remember his parents a little. The memories were bad – he shuddered even now to recall the words and blows that had been aimed at him before he had been abandoned, barely four years of age, with a band of gypsies – but he could remember what they had looked like. Ordinary people, quite ordinary and normal. Whatever had caused his face, it seemed clear it was not hereditary.

Three months. Madame Giry was right, it was a shame they would not be with him for Christmas. Gustave's recent letters were filled with excitement about it, and Erik wanted to share it with him, to know at last the pleasure of sharing the holiday with the people he loved and who loved him in return.

Erik put the photographs on top of the piano, pulled his manuscript paper towards him and tried to focus on composing. He had been working on new pieces – had some idea of another opera, but one less destructive than _Don__Juan_. Christine's voice had inspired him again, as it always had in the past, and he had already tentatively approached the musical directors at the New York opera houses with samples of his work.

He could not imagine that Christine would not want to sing. For ten years she had been forced to set aside her career, only singing by special engagement. She had only once completed a full run of an opera, but had sung at other events, concerts and galas. It was partly, he could admit, because of motherhood – but mostly it had been because of the demands of her station as Raoul's wife. Her voice was perfection, her talent outstanding, and it would be a crime if she were not to return to the stage. And so he composed.

He harboured no doubts that she would be able to gain a position in one of the opera houses – she was still called the soprano of the century, after all, a well-deserved accolade.

And he longed to hear her sing his music again.

It was several hours before he moved again, and then only because the fire had died down again, letting the cold leech into the room. His hand was cramping, his back aching a little, and he moved stiffly when he descended from the workroom to his living space. He went to the fireplace, raked the poker through the ash in the grate and added fuel, coaxing the fire back into life.

He was, he reflected ruefully as he seated himself in the armchair by the fire, getting older.

The lift shaft rattled, and after a few moments the doors opened, admitting a concierge, one of the few Erik allowed in his rooms, a young boy who didn't talk much but who seemed to appreciate music. He bore a tray with tea and a light meal – no doubt sent by Madame Giry, who knew his habits well.

But Erik's focus was on the envelope he could see on the tray; he held his hand out for it, and the boy passed it over before placing the tray on the table close to him.

A letter from Christine – overdue, perhaps delayed by the post.

"Thank you," he murmured, and the boy gave a nod and withdrew. Erik touched the writing on the envelope for a moment, and then went to the desk, found the letter opener and carefully slit the envelope. He paused on the way back to pour a cup of tea, sipped it while it was still scalding and settled back into his armchair.

'We have moved to Paris,' wrote Christine, 'and the sale of the estate will be completed within three weeks. Monsieur Bourtin tells me I am lucky to have sold it so quickly, and completely. The purchaser will take all the furnishings that I would have sold separately. Charles has of course taken a great deal, and Heléne a little. Some has come to the Paris house, to be stored for Gustave's future, if he should wish it. But for now Gustave and I only want our personal possessions.

'Gustave has asked to visit the Opera House,' she continued, and Erik frowned a little, read on. 'He wants to see the place I lived and worked, and where you lived for so many years. I have written to Monsieur Reyer, who remains musical director there, to see if I could be allowed to visit with Gustave. He wants to see more than the public spaces, and I confess I would like to visit again. Raoul did not forbid me from going, but it was discouraged except when I accompanied him, and I should like to show it to Gustave. And now that we are so close to our life together, it feels right to say goodbye to the mistakes we both made in the Opera House.'

Erik put the letter down for a moment, gazed into the fire thoughtfully. Perhaps Christine was right, but he knew that Gustave had still not full connected him with the dangerous – murderous – Opera Ghost. In an ideal world, he never would. Gustave was growing to love him, Erik was sure of that, but he was so unaware of the dark aspects of Erik's past.

But, he reminded himself, the house across the lake was almost certainly destroyed, by the mob that had hunted him if not by the managers afterwards. Christine might show him the lake, perhaps the passage behind the dressing room mirror, but there could be little else. Perhaps Gustave would remain ignorant, and innocent.

The thought that Gustave might turn from him was bitter, and even reading Gustave's letter – cheerful, affectionate and excited – could not dispel the gloom that settled on him.


	15. Chapter 15

Title: Love Will Still Remain

Rating: M

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' or 'Love Never Dies' does not belong to me.

* * *

><p>"Christine Daaé!" exclaimed Monsieur Reyer, approaching her and taking her hand. "Oh, forgive me – Lady de Chagny."<p>

Christine smiled, delighted to see the man again. He had been a strong supporter of hers, when she had been part of the company here, and although he was aged now, walked with a stick, he was still vibrant. When she had written to him, to ask if she and Gustave might visit, he had responded quickly and favourably, and additionally had secured tickets for them for the evening's performance.

"Monsieur, it's good to see you again," she said warmly. "And please, you must call me Christine."

"Christine, then," he said, and kissed her cheeks. "And this must be your son." He shook Gustave's hand solemnly. "A pleasure. I hear you want to see the place where your mother became a star."

Gustave nodded. "Yes, please," he said. "I want to see everywhere! The stage and Mother's old dressing room, and everything!"

"Now, Gustave, calm down," Christine admonished, resting her hand on his shoulder. "We have plenty of time – all afternoon." She looked at Monsieur Reyer, found him looking at Gustave, and wondered for a moment if the elderly man had ever caught a glimpse of Erik, if he had seen in her son the resemblance that seemed only to grow stronger as he grew.

But if he did, he didn't comment on it, smiling at Gustave and gesturing towards the grand staircase.

"Shall we begin with the stage?" he suggested. "Rehearsals have paused for lunch, so it would be an ideal opportunity."

Gustave chattered eagerly to him as they made their way slowly up the staircase, but Christine was silent, looked about and remembered the first time she had been here, the first time she had seen the grandeur of the building. It seemed so long ago – nearly twenty years, and so much had happened since.

When Gustave had asked to visit the Opera Populaire, Christine had been reluctant but unwilling to deny him – and the more she had thought about it, the more it appealed to her. To return at last, to show to Gustave the place where she had grown up – the place where she had fallen in love with two very different men – was something she found she could not refuse.

It would be different; she was prepared for that. She had visited with Raoul, simply another audience member, but even then she had felt Erik's absence keenly. To go backstage, to the flies, the dressing rooms, even down to the lake…it would be strange.

They reached the stalls, and Gustave's excitement seemed to grow immeasurably at the sight of the stage. It wasn't empty; stage hands moved to and fro, and a group of ballerinas were practicing on one side. She even recognised a few of them from her days here – some had been her friends, before she had been forced to break contact with so many of her theatrical circle.

"You really sang there?" Gustave asked her, tugging at her hand. "Can we go onto the stage, Mother?"

"Of course you can," said Monsieur Reyer with an indulgent smile that Christine had never seen on him before. "But mind you don't interrupt the dancers." He pointed towards a small, nondescript door at one side of the stalls, and Christine watched as Gustave ran to it, disappeared momentarily and then reappeared on the stage.

"I do appreciate this," she said to Monsieur Reyer, as they slowly followed her son. "Perhaps I should have brought him here long ago, but…"

"A charming boy," said Monsieur Reyer, not quite answering her. "Has he inherited your gift for music?" He held the door open for her, let her go up the steps ahead of him.

"He has," she replied, "but more my father's, truthfully. He plays more than sings." As they reached the stage she caught him looking at her with a strange expression, but a moment later someone approached him, asked a question, and he was distracted.

Christine stepped out onto the stage almost with trepidation. It had been so long since she had been here – and yet she could still hear the applause from her first night in _Hannibal_, could still feel the heat of the stage lights.

"Why, it's Christine!"

"Christine Daaé!"

In moments she was surrounded by dancers, their faces at once familiar and strange. Little Jammes, Marie, Émilie and Sylvia – all girls she had worked and lived with, now grown into women. They spoke over each other, all excitement and pleasure, and Christine couldn't help laughing with them.

"I'm here with my son," she said in response to their questions. "Gustave – Gustave, come here." He came running from the flies, smiled up at the dancers and offered his hand.

"Quite the charming gentleman!" said Jammes with a delighted smile. "So you've come to see where your mother worked, have you?" She didn't wait for an answer, turned to Christine. "We heard about the Comte, Christine. Is that why you've come back at last? You're almost a myth around here now, you know. Christine Daaé and the Phantom of the Opera!"

"Jammes, as you see, still likes to gossip," said Sylvia, giving Jammes a gentle shove. "It's lovely to see you, Christine, truly." She looked down at Gustave, winked at him. "Your mother was a good friend of ours," she told him, "before she married your father and left the stage."

"But she was never a good dancer," laughed Marie, and she lifted up onto her toes, performed a few steps for him. Christine smiled, nodded in acknowledgement.

"Ah, but her voice," sighed Jammes. "Oh, Christine, you must sing for us! And to show Gustave how it was when you were here."

"Oh, I couldn't," said Christine, almost alarmed at the suggestion. "You're busy rehearsing. I wouldn't dream of disturbing you."

"Oh please, Mother," Gustave begged, turning wide eyes to her. "Please sing? I'd love to hear you here."

Christine hesitated, and then shook her head. "No," she said, "I couldn't." She gestured towards Monsieur Reyer, still deep in conversation. "I'm not here as a performer, we honestly just came to –"

But Jammes would not hear of it; she danced across the stage to the director and spoke to him, pointed back to Christine, and when the old man's face lit up, Christine knew she could not refuse. He hurried towards her as fast as he could, his cane thudding against the stage with every step.

"Please, Madame," he entreated her. "I would dearly love to hear you sing again."

"…Very well," she conceded at last. "But Monsieur, I…I am with child, it will affect my voice…I will not be…"

"I am sure, Madame," he said, that strange expression on his face again, "that your voice will be as sublime as it ever was." He would not be dissuaded, Christine saw, and so she turned to Gustave, nodded at him and saw his eagerness turn to pleasure.

"What would you like to hear, Gustave?" she asked him, and he paused, tried to think of something.

"Perhaps I may make a suggestion?" said Monsieur Reyer. "The aria with which you first graced this stage." Christine smiled then – had he guessed her thoughts when she first stepped onto the stage again? – and agreed, sent Gustave to one side with the dancers, and waited while Monsieur Reyer went to the piano on the stage.

"Two bars?" he said, but didn't wait for an answer. He began playing, and Christine stepped towards centre stage, took several deep breaths.

She had not warmed up – but then she had not done so when Monsieur Reyer had first heard her sing, on that fateful day when Erik had sent the scenery crashing down onto Carlotta and she had been thrust into the spotlight. Everything had changed then. She had become a star quite literally overnight, had been reunited with Raoul…and Erik had revealed himself.

Christine had sung for Erik then, sung to please her tutor. He was not here to hear her sing now, but she could still sing for him.

She began, and the song seemed to fill the stage, filled the whole auditorium. The piano that accompanied her seemed to fall away as she sang, her soul in each note. Each word, each phrase, she remembered it all, and the past seemed to collide with the present for a moment; for a moment she could almost see the audience, almost hear Erik's proud 'brava'.

Christine had been young and untried when she first sang Elissa's aria. She was older now, and wiser, but she still felt the same thrill as she sang on the stage of the Opera Populaire, the place that had always felt more her home than anywhere else – except for Erik. When she was with Erik, she was truly alive, truly at home.

Two months more, and she would be with him again.

The song ended, the final cadenza, and her voice soared. Even to her own critical ears, she knew she was reaching the notes, knew she was doing herself and her teacher proud.

People were applauding as she finished; she flushed a little, turned to see not only the dancers and stagehands but other members of the company crowded into the wings as well, all cheering and clapping. Gustave ran to her, almost collided with her as he held his arms out for an embrace.

"You were wonderful, Mother," he said rapturously. "Just perfect!"

She smiled at him, hugged him and kissed his forehead. "You're very kind, Gustave," she said. The applause slowly ceased, the company and stagehands moving on to their business, but Monsieur Reyer approached her, looking almost overwhelmed.

"Thank you, my dear," he said. "You have given me such pleasure. One does not find a voice such as yours often." He took her hand, pressed a kiss to it. "You've made an old man very happy." He leaned on his cane, looked straight at her then. "He must be very proud of you."

Christine turned cold; she rested a hand on Gustave's shoulder, her fingers squeezing almost too tightly. "I don't understand," she said. "Who do you mean?"

Monsieur Reyer smiled thinly, lips pressed together. "My dear, the opera never ran as smoothly as when the Opera Ghost took a hand," he told her gently. "And I saw him, once or twice. Only glimpses, you understand. But still." He glanced at Gustave again – briefly, but enough that Christine understood his meaning. "Give him my regards when you see him?

He knew, or suspected. But after all, she reminded herself, Erik was safe in New York, and they would be joining him soon. Monsieur Reyer had always been kind to her, would not stir up trouble. He had never been interested in much outside the opera.

She nodded slowly, pulled Gustave closer to her and tried to smile. "If I happen to see him, I shall," she promised. "And now, may I show Gustave backstage? I would not dream of asking you to walk so far, and I know rehearsals will resume soon."

"I want to see Mother's old dressing room," Gustave chimed in, and his innocent smile was enough for her to dispel any worry over Monsieur Reyer. "May we, Monsieur?"

Monsieur Reyer smiled, amused. "Of course you may. The dressing room is empty at present, so feel free to stay as long as you like – and perhaps you will do me the honour of joining me for supper before the performance this evening?"

"We'd be delighted," said Christine. "Shall we meet in the foyer at six?" Monsieur Reyer nodded, waved them from the stage, and Gustave almost pulled Christine along in his eagerness.


	16. Chapter 16

Title: Love Will Still Remain

Rating: M

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' or 'Love Never Dies' does not belong to me.

* * *

><p>"Are you alright, Mother?" Gustave asked anxiously, as Christine sank down into a chair. He closed the dressing room door and came to kneel on the floor in front of her. Ever since she had told him of her pregnancy, once the first few dangerous months had passed, he had become even more careful of her, even more mindful of Erik's request that he look after her, and Christine couldn't help but be charmed by it.<p>

"I'm fine, Gustave," she said, smiling at him. "I'm sure there never used to be so many stairs!" He nodded, still watching her with a grave expression, and she reached out, touched his cheek gently. "I'm fine," she repeated, and then looked around. The dressing room had hardly changed. It was only a small room, sparse and bare; the most significant item within it was the large mirror, and she wondered now if Erik had installed it on purpose or whether it had always concealed the passage behind.

"It's very small," said Gustave, and he got up, went to investigate all the corners, opened the drawers of the dressing table as if he could find some secret hidden somewhere. "Was this always your room, Mother?"

"No, not always," she replied. "When I was younger we didn't perform, and then once I joined the corps de ballet properly we shared a large dressing room." She looked around, smiling at the memories. "This room became mine after I became a singer. There is a large one, closer to the stage, for the prima donna, but that was Carlotta's, and so I was given this room." She rose, went to stand before the mirror and remembered that night, remembered finally seeing Erik – the Phantom, her Angel – on the other side.

She wondered if this passage had been discovered; the mob had not come down this way, she knew, and although Raoul must have known there was a way through here, she didn't think he'd found it, didn't think anyone knew…

"Shall I show you a secret?" she said to Gustave, who had come to stand beside her. He nodded eagerly and Christine stepped close to the mirror, pressed her fingers along the ornate frame, trying to find the precise position of the hidden button. The first time she'd gone through the mirror, Erik had taken her – but she'd searched afterwards, had found the mechanism that made the mirror slide open, although she'd been too scared to go down the dark passageway.

"Aha," she murmured, and pressed the button, moulded to look like part of the frame. Gustave gasped when the mirror moved, and then he laughed, clapped his hands.

"Oh, can we go through?" he begged, and Christine hesitated a little. They had no light, and she thought she remembered the way, but the tunnel led deep beneath the Opera House, and she couldn't be certain, didn't want to get them lost. And besides that, she wasn't sure she could bear to see the destruction that the mob and time would have brought to the house across the lake.

"Did Father build this?" Gustave asked, and Christine was breathless suddenly. Gustave had never called Erik that before, and he did it now so carelessly, so without ceremony. As if he had always called Erik his father, always known him as such.

"I – I'm not sure," she said at last. But Gustave wasn't paying attention; he had started into the tunnel, and Christine followed him, called for him to wait. "We can't go down there without any light," she told him. But Gustave returned, brandishing a lantern.

"I found it over here," he said, "there's a shelf." He led her to it, and she found matches, lit the candle and closed the lantern door.

"Alright," she said, "but hold my hand. Don't let go." She wished she had some way to mark their passage, but she had to trust that she remembered how to get down to the lake, and then how to come back.

She held the lantern high to give them as much light as possible, but somehow, impossibly, she remembered the way. Through passageways, down staircases, along walkways, her feet led her as surely as if she'd come here only yesterday. She couldn't explain it even to herself – when Erik had brought her this way before she had been scared, excited, more aware of him than of the way he took her. And yet she knew the way.

They reached the lake at last, and she shone the lantern over it, let Gustave see as far as he could. It was colder down here than above, the water leeched all the heat and her breath misted as she exhaled.

"And Father lived across there?" Gustave asked, an awed note in his voice. "How did he get across?"

"There was a boat," Christine told him. "And I think there was another entrance, as well, that led to the street. But I never went that way." She stepped along the shore, searched for the boat. "It's probably gone," she murmured, more to herself than to Gustave. "Stay back from the edge," she added, louder. "It's deep."

"There – look, Mother, there it is!" exclaimed Gustave, and he waited for her to bring the light, pointed at the small craft bobbing up and down gently on the lake. It was tethered with rope to a metal ring set into the floor, the knot tight with age and disuse, and Gustave tugged at it futilely.

"Here, let me," said Christine, and she kneeled on the cold floor, set the lantern by the knot and took a hairpin from her hair. She used it to loosen the knot a little, enough that she could pry it apart with her fingers. The boat seemed sturdy enough, and a paddle had been left across the seat, so she nodded for Gustave to get in, held it steady for him and then joined him.

"Hold the lantern for me," she said, and used the paddle to push the boat away from the shore. It was barely enough light to see by, but it reflected off the water, and it wasn't long before she caught sight of glittering reflections from the far side – from things that had been left in Erik's old home.

The boat bumped against the shore, and she took the lantern from Gustave, searched for a way to secure it. She found another metal ring, tied the rope to it, and they carefully climbed from the boat.

The lantern was enough to show the destruction that had taken place. Mirrors were smashed, the candlesticks and candelabras had been taken, and a heavy layer of dust lay on everything. There were papers still, old and faded, many of them torn; she knelt and picked up a sheet, blew the dust from it and tried to see what music had once been written on it.

"This – I thought it would be different," said Gustave, and his voice sounded forlorn. Christine rose at once, turned and wrapped her arms about him.

"It was different," she said firmly. "It was beautiful here, Gustave. There were candles everywhere, and mirrors, and an organ there." She gestured to the place where the organ had stood, wondered for a moment what had happened to it and then returned her attention to her son. "It wasn't a house as you or I might think of it, perhaps, but it was his home," she told him. "And it _was_ beautiful. All was light, and somehow it was filled with music."

It was dark and empty now, so _empty_ without Erik's presence and belongings. She had made a mistake in allowing Gustave here, she knew. There was nothing here of Erik – only ghosts, or perhaps shadows of _the_ Ghost…

"Mother," said Gustave, looking up at her with wide eyes, "Mother, did – did he really kill people?"

Christine was silent, couldn't look at him for a few moments. She had half-expected this, and in a way she was glad it had happened now, when she could try to explain it to Gustave and wouldn't have to see the shame, the sorrow on Erik's face as Gustave tried to understand.

"Yes, my darling, he did," she said gently. Gustave didn't say anything, didn't protest or cry as she half thought he might. He pressed his lips together, watched her with those eyes that reminded her so much of Erik's – Gustave's were not mismatched, but they were the same shade of blue as Erik's left eye, the same shape. She hesitated, tried to decide what to say. Tried to work out if there was anything she _could_ say.

"Is that why you didn't stay with him?" Gustave asked at last. "Because he…killed people?"

"Oh, Gustave," she sighed, and she let him go, put the lantern down on the floor and hugged herself. How to explain to him, when even now she couldn't be sure what she'd been thinking then? "No," she said at last. "Or at least, that wasn't all of it. He scared me, but then everyone was so scared of him. I was so swept up in it." She turned, stared across the dark lake. "I knew he would do anything for me, and it scared me," she said softly. "And then there was Raoul. He was…he was safe, and he loved me, but it wasn't…" She lowered her head, felt the weight of her mistakes. "I loved Erik despite everything," she said at last, loud enough for Gustave to hear. "I still do. Yes, he killed men. But then, he had suffered so much. He never knew love before he met me, Gustave." She turned back to him, found him watching her still. "Before us," she clarified. "He is different because of me, and because of you."

Gustave nodded slowly, and he stepped towards her, leaned against her with his arms around her waist. She hugged him again, closed her eyes against tears.

"But he would never hurt us," he said quietly. "I – I do love him, Mother."

"I'm so glad of that, darling."

They held each other in silence then, the only sound the gentle slap of the waves against the shore, the occasional thud of the boat against the stone. And then, for a few brief moments Christine almost seemed to feel him – mere moments, but she felt Erik with her, felt his love and adoration for her and their son.

And then she felt something else, a flutter in her womb, barely a movement but enough to it to be real.

"Oh," she gasped, and pressed her hand to it. "Oh, Gustave, she's moving!" She took his hand, brought it to her abdomen. "Can you feel?" She hadn't felt movement before – she was barely four months pregnant, hadn't expected it for another few weeks, but she could feel life now, could feel the child she felt sure would be a girl. She laughed from the sheer delight of it, and the sound echoed around the underground cavern, rippled back to her from across the lake.

"I can't feel her," said Gustave, almost pouting, and Christine kissed his frown away, clutched his hand tightly.

"She will move more strongly soon," she promised, "and you'll feel her then." She laughed again, and Gustave laughed with her; the echoes mingled and rebounded and she suddenly couldn't resist singing, had to share her joy with this place that had housed Erik for so many years.

She sang a carol – Christmas was a week past, it would be the new year in just a few days, but she'd been singing them so much lately that it was the first thing that came into her mind. Her voice rang out, the echoes building up and multiplying, and Gustave joined her, his high, sweet voice sounding so lovely singing the carol with her.

They finished, fell silent and waited for the echoes to die away.

"I can see why Father lived here, now," Gustave said at last. "The organ must have sounded wonderful." He looked up at her, smiled. "Less than two months now, Mother."

"It's getting very close," she agreed. "But now we must get back, Gustave – it may take some time to find our way back to the dressing room, and don't forget we're meeting Monsieur Reyer for supper."

"And then the opera," said Gustave gaily. "But nobody will sing as well as you do, Mother." He picked up the lantern, went back to the boat. "I'm going to write to Father tomorrow and tell him we've been here," he said. "Do you think he'll mind? It's still sort of his, isn't it?"

"I suppose it is," Christine agreed with a smile. Even if Erik no longer lived here, it was plain the Opera Ghost still kept others away. "And no, Gustave, he won't mind." She helped him into the boat, cast one last look over the Phantom's home, and then pushed the boat away from the shore.


	17. Chapter 17

Title: Love Will Still Remain

Rating: M

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' or 'Love Never Dies' does not belong to me.

* * *

><p>My dearest Christine,<p>

It is now nearly halfway through January, and unless the post is unusually slow in reaching you, when you receive this you shall have two more weeks in Paris before setting sail once more, and so in five weeks from writing this I shall have you again. I shall see you, and touch you, and at last have you for my own.

I have little enough to tell you of life here at present; the Christmas season is over, and what snow we had is now melted and turned to slush in the rain. All is grey and miserable, although Phantasma does its best to remain bright and colourful.

I have found a house for us. It is outside the city, in a nearby town; perhaps an hour by carriage, so it is a manageable journey for me to do regularly, to continue to oversee Phantasma. It will be shorter by motor car, and I am more and more inclined to purchase one. There is a school nearby, and Madame Giry assures me it is well spoken of (or there are schools in New York, but it would be a longer journey for Gustave). It is spacious but secluded – two sides of the property are bordered by woods, and there is a reasonable length of driveway between the house and the road.

In truth it almost seems too spacious for the three of us, but I commissioned Madame Giry to find me suitable properties to view, and this was the best. There will be a music room, where I hope all three of us will play and sing together, and a room for your use, as well as the normal sitting room, dining room, etc. There are four bedrooms upstairs, as well as a small maid's room in the attic. As I said, almost too large for us, but the space for the music room, as well as the relative distance from the nearest neighbours, persuaded me that this was to be our home.

For the most part it will be unfurnished and undecorated when you arrive. I promised you that all decisions would be shared, and while it is only a house, I want it to be our home, and although I knew your tastes intimately ten years ago, I am sure they have changed at least somewhat. The people who lived in the house have left a great deal of their furniture, however (they plan to move west to San Francisco, they have told me) and so we will be comfortable while we choose our own.

Gustave's last letter surprised me. Not by its content, he talked of your visit to the Opera Populaire with great happiness, and said you had even been down to the lake. But he called me Father, for the first time. I had hoped that he would eventually be comfortable enough to do so, but I expected much more time to pass. More than four months and some weeks, at any rate.

It surprised me so much I couldn't read the letter at first. Oh Christine, he called me his father. Does he accept me as such? Has he truly grown to care for me?

How far we have come from that day in my workroom when I realised he was my son, and the sight of me sent him fleeing in terror. I thought then he would never be able to accept me, that he could never love me even if he was given the opportunity to know me.

And yet he calls me Father.

Soon enough I will be the father I have never had opportunity to be before. I shall do my best, Christine, and you must help me. And for you…for you I shall be, I hope, a good husband. I will not cheapen the past ten years by comparisons, but I will make you happy, Christine. I promise you that, if I can promise nothing else.

I have taken the liberty of speaking with the priest who conducted the burial service. He is willing to marry us, but wishes to speak with you before the ceremony. I told him when you are due to return, and also that you would call on him within a fortnight. I hope you will not think me presumptuous; but Christine, I have waited so long to have you as my own, my wife, that I feel I cannot wait much longer.

Five more weeks, and I shall at last have you back. I long to see you, to hear your voice, to kiss you. Time has passed so slowly since you left at the end of August, but it is crawling now, each day seems a week and each hour a lifetime. I try to compose, to play or sketch, to design some new creation for Phantasma, but nothing can occupy me for long. My thoughts return to you again and again. Each piece of music becomes something for you to sing, each design becomes something for our home.

My Christine, this will hopefully be the last letter I write to you for some time, and all that remains now is for me to remind you once again that I love you, so dearly.

I am, as always, your Erik.

* * *

><p>Dear Gustave,<p>

I am glad you were able to explore the Opera Populaire with your mother. It was our home for so many years, and it is of course where your mother began her career. She wrote to me of your visit, but did not tell me that you and Monsieur Reyer persuaded her to sing. I remember when she first sang that aria. She was sixteen, and nobody in the company believed she could possibly do it (except Madame Giry, who knew I had been teaching her). She stunned them all, and her first night was a triumph.

I am not surprised you persuaded your mother to take you down to the lake, but then I know your curiosity by now. It must have been very cold there; there is a fireplace, but if I wanted warmth I had to keep it constantly blazing. I hope neither of you came to harm, and that you didn't get too lost. The tunnels are extensive, and form a vast labyrinth. You might easily have been lost for hours.

As I said in my last letter, I am sorry not to have shared the holiday with you. I purchased a gift for you, and would have sent it to you but it would only have been another thing to bring when you return. Perhaps we can have a small celebration of our own when you and your mother come to live here at last.

I have written to your mother to tell her I have purchased a house for us, but I thought you would like me to describe the room that will be yours. It is light and airy, set on one corner of the house so you will have windows on two walls. A good-sized cupboard is set against one corner, and the previous owners left a bed in the other corner, and a desk under one of the windows. There is space for a bookcase and a chest of drawers as well. It seems rather plain and bare at present, but I'm sure you will soon make it your own.

There will not be time for me to write again before you are here, and I hope you are as eager for our reunion as I am. I have so much that I want to show you and teach you, and I have so much still to learn about you, my son.

I look forward to hearing your compositions. Take care of your mother for me for these last few weeks, and I shall meet you at the dock when you arrive back in New York.

Your loving father,

Erik

* * *

><p>Dear Father,<p>

Aunt Heléne took me to two different galleries today, and we had lunch at the Café Anglais as a treat. She said she might not see me again for a long time, so she wants to spoil me as much as possible. Mother doesn't mind, because she says she's terribly busy and it's easier for her if I'm out of the way. I try to help but I'm not very good at it, and so much of it is very boring.

Most of my things are packed away now. I have some books still, and my manuscript book. It isn't quite full and some of the music isn't very good, but Mother said you would help me, and teach me more about music, and so I'll get much better. I know I must go to school and learn all the normal things as well, but you will teach me music, won't you?

Father, may I have a puppy for my birthday? I've never been allowed one before but it would be so nice. Mother won't say yes, she says I must ask you. I know my birthday isn't until the end of April, but I wanted to ask.

Mother says there won't be time to write another letter before we leave, or at least that if we did, you'd see us before the letter reached you. I am glad we're coming back to be with you. Mother says it isn't wrong that I know we're going to be happy, because Father would have wanted us to be happy.

I love you, Father.

Gustave

* * *

><p>My Erik,<p>

These weeks seem long and dreary now. In the country, I am sure, the snow is still beautifully pristine, but here in Paris it has turned icy, the streets are treacherous to walk on, and all the joyous Christmas and New Year celebrations seem far in the past now we are in the third week of January.

The house is almost bare now, which only adds to the gloom. Most of our things are packed carefully into trunks. We have kept out the things we shall need for the next few weeks, but it is not enough to keep the house from seeming empty. And yet my heart sings with the knowledge that in under three weeks' time we shall board the ship, and come at last to be with you.

Heléne has come to stay with us for our last days here. She, at least, has tried to understand why we are leaving France, although of course I have not explained everything to her. I'm sure she suspects something but she does not ask me any questions. And she has been most helpful with packing, even managing to persuade Gustave to pack properly and not simply fling all his belongings into a trunk. He is careful with his books and papers, but not so much with anything else!

His lessons have finished now; his tutor left at Christmas. I saw little point in continuing lessons for a mere month after the holiday, and Gustave is so excitable now that I doubt he would have managed to learn much anyway. Heléne takes him out most days, for walks or to one museum or gallery or another. It distracts him enough, I think, although he is eager to see you again.

As am I, of course. Sometimes I feel I can hardly contain it, that it must be clear to everyone how much I have missed you, how much I want to be with you once more. A little over three weeks now, my love, and I shall be with you again. Will you believe me if I tell you I long to see you? You have always been filled with such self-loathing, and I did nothing to aid that when I was younger, but I will try to make you understand that I love you, wholly and completely, and your face as a part of you.

And then we shall be married. Your ring remains hidden in my jewellery box, but when we board the ship I shall wear it. Nobody there will know us, nobody will care, and I want to return to you as your fiancée and not as Raoul's widow.

I haven't let myself think about that too much, at least during the daytime. To finally be your wife, to erase the mistakes I make and set our lives at last onto the course they should have taken. And yet I can't regret the past ten years, Erik. They have changed us both, and I think for the better. I hope I am wiser now, and you have learned to live with people a little more. There are things I do regret, but I find I have let them go as I have let my grief go.

Oh Erik, I love you so dearly, and I will try to make you sure of it now, as you have never been before. I know you still distrust this happiness, but it is real, and we will have so many years together.

As ever, this letter goes with all of my love, and I remain, always, your Christine.


	18. Chapter 18

Title: Love Will Still Remain

Rating: M

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' or 'Love Never Dies' does not belong to me.

* * *

><p>"The ship docked nearly two hours ago," Erik growled. "They should be here by now." He turned away from the customs building in disgust. His patience, never great, was exhausted by this final wait. "Something must have gone wrong."<p>

"She wrote that she had the right papers, sir," said Squelch peaceably. "Customs always takes time."

Erik glanced at him, knew he was right but was unwilling to admit it. Christine and Gustave had valid visas, but it would still take longer than it would for a mere visit. There would be a great deal of luggage to unload as well – it was why he had brought Squelch, after all, to hire a cart, load the trunks and bring them to the house.

But oh, he was impatient. The past few days had seemed without end, and to be delayed now, when they were so close – were only a few hundred yards away from him at most – was impossible to bear.

"It shouldn't be much longer," Squelch added, and Erik sighed, turned back to watch the doorway.

"Not soon enough," he muttered, and Squelch laughed, a deep sound that made those nearby turn and glance at them. Few people were allowed to laugh at Erik, but Squelch was undoubtedly one of them – he'd been in the same freak show as Erik, all those years ago when he'd been forced to display himself once more for a few coins, shelter and scraps of food. He'd helped Erik build his new empire, become as trusted as Madame Giry – but less afraid of him, more able to see Erik as a human and not as…as a murderous Phantom.

Another group of people came through, a family, and Erik looked away again, unable to bear seeing their happiness when his own – his _family_ – was so close and yet so far.

"Father!"

Erik whirled around; Gustave collided with him, wrapped his arms around Erik's waist and looked up at him, eyes shining. He was just as perfect as Erik remembered, had grown at least an inch, and Erik found he had to blink away tears.

His son, back with him at last.

"You've grown," he managed at last, and cupped Gustave's cheek, stroked his hair. "Gustave…" And then he looked up, looked for Christine, searched through the sea of faces – and found her, coming towards him slowly, her expression oddly nervous.

A moment later he realised why. His mouth worked but no words came; she reached them, stretched out a hand but let it drop, rested it on her stomach – on the bump that told of the life within her.

"Hello, Erik," she said softly, and Gustave let go of him, looked anxiously between them.

"I – Christine – you – " A thousand thoughts raced through his mind, almost too fast to catch. She looked up at him, and he could only stare back, absently cataloguing the changes that pregnancy had brought.

"I didn't want – I couldn't disappoint you, if anything happened," she said then, her words rushed. "I lost two children after Gustave, I couldn't –" She reached out to him again, her eyes wide and hopeful. "Erik?"

He took her hand – noted the ring on her finger, felt a frisson of pleasure at the sight of it – and lifted it to his mouth, pressed a kiss to her knuckles.

"Oh Christine," he said gently, "I am so glad to see you." And then he pulled her close, wrapped her in his arms and kissed her. She was crying, he tasted salt, and he lifted a hand to wipe the tears from her cheeks. "My Christine," he murmured. "But – you're healthy? And the child?"

"We're both quite well," she assured him, and she smiled at him through her tears. "Quite, quite well." He nodded, drank her in, the sight and the smell of her, the way tendrils of hair had escaped her pins and framed her face – the dark circles under her eyes that told of sleepless nights, despite her claim that she was quite well. She was beautiful, so beautiful, and she was _his_.

At last he tore his gaze away from her, glanced around for Squelch, but he had already disappeared to collect the luggage. The crowd had thinned a little, but the cab rank was still full and he offered Christine his arm, took Gustave's outstretched hand.

"You're tired," he said to her. "Squelch will bring your trunks after us. Shall – shall we go home?" He was rewarded with a soft smile as she nodded, and he led them carefully through the crowd to one of the waiting carriages, gave the address to the driver and then helped Christine up the step, settled her into the seat and let Gustave shut the door.

"You're not angry with me?" Christine asked then. She held his hand still, leaned back in her seat until he put his arm around her shoulders and guided her to rest against him.

"Not in the least," he assured her at once. He was curious to know why she hadn't shared the news – although if she had miscarried twice, he thought perhaps he understood – but he wasn't angry. He looked across at Gustave, who seemed hardly able to keep still, and smiled at his son. "You look as though you might fly off your seat," he observed, and Gustave laughed.

"He's been like this for weeks," said Christine fondly. "I don't think I've ever been so grateful to Heléne in my life."

"I haven't been too bad, have I, Mother?" Gustave asked, sitting on his hands. He looked up at Erik, his expression earnest. "I've been looking after her like you said." He seemed to wait for Erik's approval, and Erik freely gave it.

"You've done an excellent job," he praised. "Thank you, Gustave." Gustave's smile was wide, he shook his fringe out of his eyes and leaned back in his seat, still sitting on his hands. Erik found himself thinking that Gustave needed a haircut, and wondered at the thought.

"The doctor said she ought to rest more," Gustave said then, "but she said there was too much to do."

Erik's fingers tightened on Christine's shoulder for a moment, he glanced down and saw again the dark smudges beneath her eyes, the pallor of her skin.

"He was being over-cautious," she said, looking up at him. "But I…the two I lost, it was within the first few months, so he seemed confident that the most dangerous time has passed." Her hand was on her rounded stomach again, rubbing almost absently, and he watched the movement, fascinated. "I haven't been sleeping well," she admitted then. "I've missed you, Erik."

He pressed a kiss to her forehead, thought of long, lonely nights without her, thought of Christine doing too much in the preparations to join him. Thought of the questions she must have faced, from friends and in-laws in France.

"You'll rest now," he said, and it wasn't a request. And he was already thinking of finding a doctor here to examine her, to make sure she and the child were healthy. If she had miscarried twice, the risks to both her and the child would surely be greater. If rest would minimise those risks…

"You'll let Father look after you, won't you?" Gustave asked, leaning forwards. "You did promise you would, Mother."

"Of course I will," said Christine, and she took Erik's hand, entwined their fingers. The engagement ring on her finger glinted in the bright, cold February sunshine; he reflected idly that it was a good thing he hadn't ordered a wedding gown for her. She smiled up at him, and he couldn't resist the urge to kiss her, a chaste brush of lips.

"I love you," she whispered, and then she made a sound, pulled away from him a little. "She's kicking," she said, and Erik's gaze was drawn downwards again. She brought his hand to touch – he felt something, an arm or a leg pressing against the womb, perhaps, and his mouth was dry, he tried to speak but found himself wordless.

"Mother says she's dancing," said Gustave. Erik couldn't look away from Christine, couldn't tear himself away from the joy in her expression, the curve of her lips as she smiled. The feel of their child kicking in her womb.

"She?" he said at last, and Christine shrugged a little, leaned against him again and settled her head against his shoulder.

"I'd like a girl," she said. "But of course we can't know." His hand stayed on her stomach, fingers spread wide to feel any hint of movement. He didn't care whether the child was male or female – the very _fact_ of it was so overwhelming that to begin contemplating its gender was, he felt, asking too much right now.

"I want a brother," said Gustave, swinging his legs a little. "But I suppose a girl wouldn't be too bad." He looked out of the window, turned back to Erik. "Is it far to the house?" he asked. "Mother said it's outside New York."

"It is," Erik confirmed. "We have another forty minutes or so, I'm afraid. But there should be a good supper waiting." Christine hummed an inquiring noise, and he held her a little closer. "I hired a maid," he told her. "Or rather Madame Giry did. She seemed competent enough." And she hadn't seemed deterred by his mask, which was always promising.

"And then to bed, Gustave," Christine said. Gustave's mouth twisted into a pout, so like Christine at the same age, and Erik had to bite his tongue from commenting on it.

"But I want to show Father my music," Gustave protested. "And explore the house – and –"

"Tomorrow, Gustave," said Erik, smiling faintly at Gustave's enthusiasm, his desire to plunge himself immediately into his new life, but although he didn't seem tired, Erik was sure he was wearing himself out with his excitement.

And once Gustave was asleep, he could ask the questions of Christine that he could not ask in front of their son, questions about her health, the child's health, the miscarriages she had never told him about. He could hold her too, kiss her as he longed to do.

Christine's eyes danced; she had guessed his thoughts, perhaps, for she leaned up, touched his cheek with her hand and kissed him.

The baby kicked again, just beneath his hand, and Christine pulled away from him with a laugh.

"She knows you," she said. "Oh, Erik, I…" She trailed off, smoothed her hand over his cheek and Erik leaned into it, revelling in her touch. He knew what she could not find the words for, felt it himself. Perfect happiness, absolute contentment. More than words could possibly hope to express.

"I know," he said, and pulled her close to him again. "I know." They were together, and they would not be parted again. And there was Gustave, and there was this new blessing, another child – to be born, he realised, in only a few months time. It must be due by the end of April, close to Gustave's birthday.

A sudden thought made him smile, shake his head slightly, and Christine looked at him, one eyebrow raised in curiosity.

"I wrote that the house would be too large," he said to her, "but I suspect Madame Giry saw the future more clearly than I did." He touched her stomach again, rubbed his hand across the swell, and thought of a house full of Christine's children.

"Is there room for a puppy?" Gustave asked eagerly. "For my birthday?"

"You'll have a brother or sister for your birthday," said Christine, and she was laughing, shared her laughter with Erik. "Isn't that enough, Gustave?"

"Oh, it'll be alright," said Gustave, "but I'd rather have a puppy."


	19. Chapter 19

Title: Love Will Still Remain

Rating: M

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' or 'Love Never Dies' does not belong to me.

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><p>Christine leaned against the doorframe of her new bedroom – the room she would share with Erik – and watched as Erik closed Gustave's bedroom door quietly. He paused there for a moment, a hand flat on the wooden door, and she wondered what he was thinking. The white of his mask was turned to her, forbidding her a clue to his thoughts.<p>

Then he turned, saw her in the doorway and smiled at her.

"He is asleep," he said, and his footsteps were silent as he came towards her, held out his hand for hers. His thumb rubbed across her knuckle, and she almost shivered at the slight touch. He seemed to drink her in, from head to bare feet, and she felt her cheeks warm at his frank admiration.

"I – I thought he wouldn't be awake long," she said, her words a little rushed. "He's been wearing himself out."

Erik shook his head slightly, stepped closer to her. "So have you," he said quietly. "I can see how tired you are, Christine."

"I haven't slept well," she murmured, lowering her gaze, lifting her free hand to rest on his chest. "These last few weeks have been trying. The closer we came to returning, the harder it became to sleep without you."

He kissed her then, pressed her against the doorframe, released her hand only to thread his fingers through her hair. Her skin tingled, she moaned into his mouth, his other hand traced a line down her throat, across her collarbone, slipped under the sleeve of her camisole and it was almost more than she could bear.

They parted before she became too breathless; he looked down at her, and she reached up, gently removed his mask. He almost flinched away, but she tilted her head up, kissed his exposed cheek.

"I don't have words to tell you how I've missed you," she said quietly. "Or how much I love you."

"You don't need to," he said, just as quiet. "I already know. My dearest Christine." He frowned suddenly, rested his hands on her shoulders and skimmed his hands down her arms. "You must be cold," he said, reproving. "And you should be resting. Gustave said –"

"Gustave has taken his responsibilities very seriously," Christine interrupted him with a shake of her head. "The doctor was being over-cautious, truly. And I would have put on my dressing robe, but it seems to have disappeared somewhere in the bottom of the trunk." She gave an awkward shrug. "I can't bend low enough to find it." His mouth quirked, a half-hearted smile, but he ushered her into the bedroom, made her get into bed and wrapped a shawl around her shoulders.

"I wasn't sure," he said then, sitting on the edge of the bed, "if – I can stay in another room, if you'd like, until we're married."

But Christine shook her head. She had spent enough nights without him, and she would not continue to be without him – could not _bear_ to sleep along any longer, even for the few more weeks it would take for them to be married.

"No, please don't," she said. "I need you with me, Erik." She leaned back against the pillows, slowly relaxed. Her back had been aching for most of the day, something which was becoming increasingly common as her pregnancy progressed, and the bed was soft and comfortable. "Do you forgive me for not telling you?" she had to ask. She would have known if he was angry – had only seen shock and pleasure in his reactions earlier – but she had fought with herself about telling him, about writing to him with the news, and she had to know.

But Erik's gentle smile told her that he understood, at least a little.

"You were probably right," he said. "You said you lost two children?"

"Yes." She had to close her eyes for a moment at the memories; the first had been two years into her marriage with Raoul, a year and a half after Gustave's birth, and the second had been three years later. It had certainly helped to sour the marriage, and after the second loss Raoul had turned to drink and gambling more and more.

"I was told I would probably never have another child," she said at last, opening her eyes. Erik was watching her, his mismatched eyes moving from her face to her swollen belly. "But I think now it was only…Raoul's children that I could not have." There was a flash of something in his expression, and she thought perhaps it was triumph, but it passed quickly. She reached out; he took her hand. "The most dangerous time is the first three months," she told him. "I couldn't tell you before then, just in case…" He was silent, but she thought he understood. "Gustave is right," she went on, "the doctor said I should rest more, but he was also increasingly confident that I can carry this child."

"And the danger to you?" he asked her, leaning towards her a little. "What of that?"

"Very little now," she said. He seemed relieved, nodded slowly, and she smiled, tugged at his hand to bring him closer. He came willingly, paused to shed his shoes and then stretched out alongside her on the bed, his hand resting automatically on her belly, rubbing gentle circles. He had barely been able to resist touching her since they had met on the dock earlier, but she didn't mind – relished it, in fact. She had spent so long aching to touch him that any contact now was only to be welcomed.

"You are so beautiful, my Christine," he murmured, leaned close and kissed her again, soft and gentle, and she hummed into his mouth, lifted a hand to undo the buttons of his waistcoat. He stopped her, entwined their fingers as he pulled away enough to look at her, still close enough that his breath was warm on her face. "Is it – can we?" he asked hesitantly, and she nodded at once.

"It's safe," she said. "And – and I've _missed_ you, Erik." She took his hand, daring suddenly, and brought it to her sensitive breast. He inhaled sharply, curved his hand to fit the swell of it, and she couldn't help moaning. He began unbuttoning her chemise slowly, so slowly, pausing between each button to kiss the bared skin, and then he pulled the chemise off her, brought his mouth to her breast and everything else fell away.

Christine left him in the bed afterwards, went to the bathroom at the baby's insistence, and when she returned Erik was waiting for her, welcomed her back into the bed and into his arms. It was, she found, easier to lie comfortably when he was with her, and wasn't surprised by it. She turned onto her side and he lay behind her, draped his arm over her almost possessively, his hand resting over her womb.

She hummed a little, covered his hand with hers and watched the play of the light on her ring, too lazy and too sated to do anything more.

"Can this possibly be real?" he murmured at last, and he was pressed so close to her that she could feel the movement of his mouth against her neck. "I'm dreaming again, I must be."

"Did you dream this?" she asked, rubbing his hand gently over her stomach. "Another child?" She thought not; she knew Erik, knew he'd been overwhelmed at finding out he was Gustave's father. He'd embraced it wholeheartedly, but she couldn't imagine that he'd thought of more children.

"No," he said slowly, "never. But you, in my arms…a home together…I dreamed of that, often."

Christine closed her eyes, focused on the feel of him, of his hand resting on her belly, the warmth of him against her back. "I dreamed of you too," she said. "So many times in the last few months I've woken up expecting to see you." He kissed the back of her neck, and it almost tickled.

"The first time I felt her," she said then, "was when Gustave and I went to the Opera House."

He made a pleased sound, almost a purr, and she continued, encouraged. She'd thought he would want to hear these things, to know the things he'd missed during their separation. Things she had kept back from him, terrified that the child would be lost. "We'd gone across the lake," she said. "He'd called you Father, for the first time. And I felt her moving inside me." She smiled again, remembering it.

"You're so sure it's a girl," he said, and she nodded, a tiny movement of her head. "I think…I think I'd like that," he said, and his words came slowly, almost hesitantly. "A girl as beautiful as her mother. Dark hair, dark eyes…"

"Gustave only grows more like you," Christine said then. "The way he looks at me sometimes, that thoroughly stubborn look…"

"The way he smiles is just like you," Erik said, almost arguing but not quite. His arm tightened around her then, a slight squeeze, and she hummed, pressed back against him, and then she twisted around in his arms so she was facing him, lifted a hand, stroked her fingers across his right cheek. He didn't flinch, but the instinct was there, she could see.

"Erik," she said softly. "Erik, I will make you believe me, in time. And whatever this child looks like, I will love her completely." He didn't look at her, stared at something unseen across the room, and she kissed him, kissed his bloated lip, his papery skin. "I love you," she whispered. "And I'm going to marry you, Erik." He smiled then, met her gaze with his own, kissed her and stroked a hand through her hair.

"My wife," he said, "my Christine. I…I will try to believe you."

"That's all I could ask," she said. She wasn't foolish enough to expect his instincts to change overnight, not after so many years of rejection, of hatred, from those around him.

She yawned then, covered her mouth with her hand, and Erik's eyes danced in amusement.

"Sleep, my Christine," he urged her. "You must be exhausted. We have all the days there are to talk." He pulled the blankets up, waited for her to turn around again and then tucked them around her securely. A moment later he turned out the gas lamp, lay down behind her and wrapped his arms around her again.

He was so warm, his bare skin against hers, and despite her fatigue she revelled in it, pressed close to him.

"Erik," she murmured, "I really can't quite believe we're finally here. I feel as though I'll wake up in the morning and find this is just a dream again." She'd dreamed this so often, woken so many times without him, and she couldn't quite seem to trust it.

But he kissed her neck, kept his arms tight around her.

"If I'm not dreaming, you're not," he said. "And I'll be here in the morning. I promise. Now sleep, Christine."

She couldn't resist the instruction, gave a happy sigh and drifted into sleep far quicker than she had been able to for weeks. She had slept in Erik's arms only twice, both times on the nights she had conceived, but now there was no uncertainty, now there was no threat of separation hanging over her. He was warm, and safe, and he held her through the night.

The baby, too, seemed more at ease now. For several weeks now she had been restless at nights, much more active than during the day, and she'd been waking several times a night – or simply not sleeping at all.

It was as though the growing child could sense her father, could sense Christine's happiness and was responding accordingly, was relaxing now that her parents had been reunited.

Christine slept, and she dreamed. She dreamed of a baby daughter, a beautiful girl with dark curls and blue eyes, and in her sleep she smiled.

And when she awoke, in the cold, grey pre-dawn, Erik was still there, still sleeping beside her, his arm thrown across her as if he couldn't bear not to touch her.

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><p>Still a few chapters to go :)<p> 


	20. Chapter 20

Title: Love Will Still Remain

Rating: M

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' or 'Love Never Dies' does not belong to me.

* * *

><p>Christine hummed to herself as she moved about the small room that had been claimed as hers, arranging and rearranging the things she'd brought from France. She hadn't unpacked anything herself – Erik had insisted she allow the maid, Laura, to do that, insisting she was to rest as much as possible – but she had wanted to arrange her belongings herself, had banished Erik and Gustave to the music room to look over Gustave's compositions.<p>

The room was small but cosy; a fire in the grate made it homely, and she would find comfortable furniture to truly make it her own. There were two worn armchairs by the fire, a bookcase that she had filled with her books and music scores, a window that would give enough light to sew or read by.

She finished arranging the photographs in their frames on the mantelpiece, looked at them for a moment and wished she had a picture of Erik to go with them. She had several of Gustave, a small, faded daguerreotype of her father and one even older of her mother – and she had photographs of Raoul, although she had only selected one for display, and placed it towards the back.

But there was no representation of Erik among the faces that looked up at her; and there would be none, she knew. To ask him for a photograph – at least for now, for the foreseeable future – would be too much.

She thought, idly, of asking for a family photograph once the baby was born, and wondered if he would be able to accept then.

The doorbell rang then, and Christine paused for a moment, listened to make sure Laura had gone to answer it. The young girl was hard-working and determined to please her new employers, but was clearly nervous, had never worked as a maid before. But Christine heard footsteps as Laura moved from the kitchen to the front door, and she nodded to herself, pleased, went to sit down in her armchair.

A moment later Laura came in, dipped a curtsey. "Madame Giry's here, ma'am," she said. "Shall I show her in?"

"Please," said Christine, pleased but a little surprised. She'd only been back in New York two days, and Erik hadn't mentioned that Madame Giry was planning to visit. "And would you bring tea? With the last of the cake, if there's any left." Laura curtseyed again, withdrew, and a moment later Madame Giry came into the room.

"No, don't get up," she said as soon as Christine made to rise. She swept her gaze over Christine, nodded as if in satisfaction. "I thought so," she said. "Erik was sure the house was too large, but I had a feeling."

"It's good to see you, Madame," said Christine, and she waited while the elder woman seated herself. Madame Giry had aged, she saw with dismay – she'd carried a cane for as long as Christine had known her, ever since those days so long ago when she'd come to live in the Opera House under Madame Giry's guardianship, but it had never been used as it was now, as a real source of support. Her hair was greying quickly, and there was a weariness to her posture, although still elegant and upright.

"And you also, Christine," said Madame Giry. "You look radiant." She smiled, just a quirk of her lips, but enough for Christine to know she approved. "You did not write to Erik with the news."

"No," said Christine, "I needed to be sure…I lost two children, Madame, early during the pregnancies, and so…" Madame Giry nodded, didn't comment. "But he is happy," Christine said, smiling. "At least, I hope he is."

She was afraid, a little – just a small fear, one that only emerged when he flinched away from her. There was no reason to think their second child would be any less beautiful than their first, and Christine knew she would love her regardless, but she worried about Erik, about what his reaction would be if the baby were not…normal.

"Don't borrow trouble," said Madame Giry firmly, following her thoughts. "Gustave is fine, there is no reason this child should not be. Erik's fears must not be your fears, Christine, or you will not live happily."

"Yes, Madame," Christine nodded. "But I'm not afraid, truly. I will love this child no matter what she looks like." Madame Giry gave an approving nod, started speaking again but Laura knocked on the door then, came in bearing a tray with tea and cake. She set it down on the small table between the two women and then left with a nervous curtsey.

"Is she doing well?" Madame Giry asked, jerking her head towards the door. "She seemed promising. Erik asked me to find someone, so I hope she suits."

"She isn't afraid of Erik, or overly curious about his mask," Christine said, leaning forwards to pour the tea. "That bodes well. Although Gustave already has her willing to do anything for him." She shared an amused smile with her foster-mother, passed across a cup and saucer, took a slice of cake for herself.

"Will Gustave start school soon?" Madame Giry asked, helping herself to a slice of cake.

"Yes, within the next fortnight," said Christine, leaning back in her chair. "I think he's nervous, but it will be good for him. His English is, I think, good enough that he won't have much difficulty there." She paused, looked down at her tea for a moment. She wanted to ask about Meg, but she wasn't sure if it would be welcomed – wasn't even sure she truly wanted to know. Her life had become so happy, so full of joy at last, and Meg…

"And you'll be married before the child is born?" Madame Giry asked, unaware of her thoughts.

"Yes," said Christine, and sipped her tea. "I believe Erik has already spoken with the priest who buried Raoul. We…we want to be married as quickly as possible." She glanced at her finger, at the ring that sparkled there, and couldn't help smiling again.

"Good," said Madame Giry with a decided nod. "At least some of our mistakes will be made right."

Christine paused, looked at her for a moment and then leaned forward to put her cup down on the table.

"Madame, how is Meg?" she asked, and Madame Giry's mouth tightened, she looked away, into the glowing coals in the fireplace. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have –"

"It's alright, Christine," Madame Giry interrupts her. "I...you have the right to ask." She looked wearier now, filled with sadness, and Christine wished she hadn't asked, no matter what Madame Giry said. She couldn't help feeling she had only caused harm to Madame Giry, and to Meg, and had no wish to add to it now.

"She is ill," Madame Giry said abruptly then, her words clipped. "There was an outbreak of pneumonia at the sanatorium, and they say her health is…fragile." Shocked, Christine lifted a hand to her mouth.

"But she won't – she's not – " she stammered, and Madame Giry shook her head.

"She should recover," she said. "But she is not…" She trailed off, bowed her head, and Christine was struck by how vulnerable she looked suddenly. "She is mostly lucid," she said then, "and I think there is some talk of moving her to the women's prison, but I…" She shrugged, and Christine's heart ached.

"I'm so sorry, Madame," she whispered, and didn't know what else to say. But Madame Giry shrugged, put her cup down and went to stoke up the fire.

"You should keep warm," she admonished. "You said you lost two children? And to make the sea journey in your condition."

Christine allowed her to change the subject, allowed the mood to be lightened. "You sound like Erik now," she said lightly. "Ever since we returned he's been fretting over me. I'm honestly quite well."

"That man has watched over you since you were nine," said Madame Giry, and she put another log onto the fire. "You can't expect him to stop now." She cast her gaze across the photographs on the mantelpiece, turned to Christine. "Did he tell you he's been composing?" she asked.

"He's always composing," returned Christine, tried to decide whether to have a second slice of cake.

"An opera," said Madame Giry meaningfully, and Christine stared up at her, couldn't help staring. "He's been in contact with the opera houses in New York, too."

Christine rested a hand on her stomach, thoughtful. "An opera," she said, and Madame Giry nodded. The last opera – the only one Erik had ever composed – had been so new, so momentous…and it had ended so badly for them both, when she had unmasked him on stage. She didn't know, now, what she had been thinking when she'd done that.

She was a different person now, she told herself, and so was Erik.

"I won't be able to sing for months," she murmured then, "not properly, at least. The baby…" It would take time and practice to retrain her muscles and voice after the pregnancy, and she could not think of going to the stage while the baby was newborn, was feeding from her.

And yet the thought of singing Erik's music…she could not deny how powerfully that called to her.

Madame Giry took her chair again, poured herself another cup of tea. "I rather think he will wait for you," she said dryly. "Have the cake, my dear, you know what they say about eating for two." Blushing, Christine took another slice. "Where is he, by the way? I was sure I'd find him practically glued to your side."

"He and Gustave are in the music room," Christine said. "Gustave's been writing more music than ever, and he so wanted Erik to look at it." She glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece and pursed her lips slightly. "He should go outside soon though," she said. "The light won't last, and he's been indoors all day."

"Hmph. Good luck, if he's like Erik," said Madame Giry, arching one eyebrow. "I've long since lost count of the number of times I've had to almost physically drag him away to eat and rest." She looked at the clock as well, sighed and retrieved her cane. "I must go," she said. "I came on the omnibus, and I will miss my return if I'm not quick."

"Will you come again?" Christine asked, rising as Madame Giry did. "I – I hope I will make friends here, but…"

Madame Giry smiled slightly, gave a nod. "Very well, if you wish it. We're not busy at Phantasma at present."

"Next week, perhaps?" urged Christine. She found herself keen to properly renew her relationship with her foster-mother, to share that bond once more. "I'm to meet with the priest on Monday, and I'm sure Erik will insist I be seen by a doctor at some point, but you are always welcome, Madame. Truly."

Madame Giry looked at her for a moment, reached out as if to touch her, and then nodded again. "Wednesday, perhaps," she said. "Don't come out into that cold hallway, Christine, I'm perfectly able to see myself out." She paused, and Christine didn't let herself think about her actions too much; she stepped forward, reached up and kissed her foster-mother's cheek.

"I _am_ glad you came," she said softly. "And I know…I know it can't mean much, but I am truly sorry for my part in…in everything."

Madame Giry said nothing else, but she took Christine's hand, squeezed it for a moment, and then she left, the sound of her cane on the floor fading as she went down the hallway.

Christine sat down again, stared thoughtfully into the fire. Madame Giry had given her much to think about – but then the baby kicked, the clock chimed the hour, and Christine remembered that she wanted Gustave to get some fresh air before it grew dark.


	21. Chapter 21

Title: Love Will Still Remain

Rating: M

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' or 'Love Never Dies' does not belong to me.

* * *

><p>It was eight in the morning, and nearly time for Gustave to depart for his first day of school, and yet he was nowhere to be seen.<p>

"He'll be late," said Christine with a sigh. She was seated by the fire in the sitting room, wrapped up in blankets, working on some knitted garment for the new baby. Erik didn't think he'd ever seen her looking so...domestic. He was constantly seeing new facets to her now that they lived together, and he loved every one of them. "Erik, would you find him? I want to finish this before Laura and I go out shopping."

"You shouldn't go out in the cold," Erik remonstrated, but they'd had this discussion when Christine had first declared her intent to see more of the town, and she had promised to be careful, refused to countenance any suggestion that she stay at home.

He wanted to kiss her again, and there was nothing to stop him now, so he leaned down, kissed her forehead, her mouth. She had been here for over a week and he still marvelled that he could kiss her whenever he wished, could hold her and speak to her whenever he wanted to.

She kissed him back, tasted of sweet tea, and then she pushed him away, her eyes dancing with amusement. "Go and find him," she urged. "He'll be late, and It's his first day."

Erik sketched an elaborate bow and left the room, followed by her soft laughter. He liked making her laugh, liked seeing her amusement – wished she could always be like that, made impossibly more beautiful when she smiled and laughed.

He went upstairs, knocked lightly on Gustave's bedroom door. There was no answer, and Erik frowned, paused with his hand on the doorknob, then turned it and stepped inside. But the room was empty; Gustave was not there. Erik's frown deepened, and he went to check the other bedrooms, came downstairs again and went to the music room – Gustave was often to be found there, but not now.

He almost went back into the sitting room, but he paused near the front door. Gustave's boots were gone, and Christine had been most insistent that he not wear them in the house. His coat and hat were still there, but Erik nodded to himself, picked them up and donned his own coat, opened the front door and closed it quietly behind himself.

Gustave was hiding in the empty garage, sitting on an old paint can, elbows on his knees and head in his hands. He didn't look up when Erik approached him, didn't say anything, and Erik sat down beside him, cross-legged on the cold floor.

"You left your coat," said Erik eventually. "You must be cold." Gustave shrugged, and Erik looked at him, saw his white hands, the shivers he was struggling against. He reached out, wrapped the coat around Gustave's shoulders, dropped the hat into his lap. "In case you change your mind," he said.

He was aware that time was passing, that Gustave should not be late for his first day of school, but there was a reason Gustave was hiding here, and Erik would be patient, would wait to discover it.

Finally Gustave moved, put his arms through the coat sleeves, buttoned it up, thrust the hat over his blond hair. Erik didn't comment, didn't want to drive Gustave away.

"I don't want to go," Gustave said then. "I don't – my English isn't good enough, and I don't know American history, and they'll make fun of me for having a tutor before."

Erik's mouth twitched, but he was careful that Gustave didn't see his amusement, careful to only show concern and support. Gustave was afraid, that was clear – or nervous, perhaps, was the better word for it, and Erik understood perfectly. He had never been comfortable going among strangers, but he had a better reason, or so he thought to himself, and Gustave must learn to do what Erik could not.

Gustave, after all, had no mask to invite stares, laugher, curiosity. Gustave had a perfect face, and Christine's insatiable curiosity, and he would make friends easily. He could not see it, but Erik would try to help him to conquer his nerves.

"Your English is extremely good," he said, "and you will only improve with practice, which you will get at school." Gustave muttered something inaudibly, but Erik didn't ask him to repeat it. "As to not knowing the curriculum – you are clever, Gustave. You'll learn quickly, and I can help you." Gustave glanced at him then, shrugged. Erik waited to see if he would say anything, and then continued. "You know you have to go to school. It's the law here, Gustave. And you won't make friends if you don't go."

"I don't want friends," Gustave said defiantly, but Erik shook his head, knew his son was only trying to deceive himself. "I don't! I just need you and Mother. And the baby," he added, almost as an afterthought. "If I go to school I'll hardly see you."

"School finishes at four, and there are the weekends," Erik pointed out patiently. "And soon enough I'll be working again during the day." Gustave scowled, stymied, and Erik wanted to smile again, a little. He felt the same, felt he didn't want to be parted from Gustave and Christine for a moment more than necessary, but Gustave had to be schooled, and Christine was right, he needed to be among people his own age. "I understand," he said, voice gentle, "but you will enjoy it, Gustave. I promise."

"Will you take me?" Gustave asked then, looking at him with wide, hopeful eyes. "Just – just today?"

Erik hesitated. He'd seen the school, of course, but from a carriage, and to walk there in the daylight – to walk in plain sight of everyone about their business in the town…he was used to it in Phantasma, where visitors simply took his mask as part of the mystery of the place, but here…

"Never mind," said Gustave then, with a heavy sigh. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked."

Erik couldn't refuse him. He rose, held his hand out to Gustave. "I'll come," he said. "But just this once, for your first day. It's only fifteen minutes' walk, and your mother assures me you're capable of going alone." He didn't think much of that – could still remember, all too vividly, that terror of finding Gustave was missing, had been taken, and thought there were far too many opportunities for something to go wrong if Gustave went alone. But he could accept that it was right for Gustave, could try at least to check his protective instincts.

"Really?" Gustave asked, used Erik's hand to lever himself upright. "Truly?"

Erik laughed then, nodded. "Truly. Now run and get your books, and don't forget to kiss your mother goodbye."

Gustave hurried to obey and Erik followed slower, paused to close the garage door and then waited for his son at the foot of the porch steps. Gustave wasn't long; when he reappeared he had acquired his books, a slate and his lunch in a pail.

"I'm ready," he said, and sounded resolute. Erik stared for a moment, caught the line of his son's jaw and recognised it from the mirror. He saw so much of Christine in Gustave that it was a surprise when he saw any reflection of himself in the boy's features. "Father?" said Gustave, and Erik shook himself, offered a faint smile and led the way down the path to the driveway.

The walk was not long, mainly through residential streets, and Erik was relieved to be mostly unobserved even as he dreaded the turn onto the busier streets that led towards the school. Those who did observe him didn't quite stare, gave him more than a second glance, but Gustave talked to him, chattered nervously, and Erik tried to focus on his son, to ignore the stares of the people they passed. Focused on his voice, and the feel of his hand in Erik's.

He paused when the school was within sight, at the corner of two streets, and he looked down at Gustave, saw his son's nervousness.

"You'll be alright," he said softly, and Gustave nodded, although it was clear he didn't believe it. "Gustave," said Erik, firm now, "don't worry. We'll be waiting for you when you get home. You're sure you know the way back?"

Gustave nodded again, gulped in a deep breath, released Erik's hand. "Don't tell Mother I was scared," he said, words tumbling out of his mouth, and then he was gone, trudged down the street towards the school.

Erik watched him go, waited until Gustave was at the door before turning back towards home. It was bittersweet, and he almost wondered why Christine hadn't walked Gustave herself. But then she'd had him for ten years, while Erik was still getting to know him, still craving every moment with him, still amazed at every word and friendly look Gustave gave him.

Was it easier for her, to let Gustave grow up, go to school, because she had seen him grow from infant to boy? He couldn't imagine that it was, not really.

Christine was crying when he returned to the house, her knitting discarded on the floor, and he hurried to her side, dropped his coat on the sofa and knelt before her. He reached up to wipe the tears from her eyes, took her hand and pressed a kiss to her knuckles.

"What is it?" he asked her. "Christine, what's wrong?" She didn't stop crying, silent sobs that wracked her body, and he tightened his grasp on her hand, felt helpless and hated it. "Christine, hush," he said, brushed his thumb across her cheek again. "Tell me what's wrong."

"I'm being ridiculous," she managed at last. "I'm sorry, there's nothing. It's nothing. I'm just…" She waved her hand, reached for her handkerchief, and Erik was _helpless_. He knelt up, offered his arms and she leaned forwards, clung to him awkwardly. "I'm sorry," she said again. "It's just…watching Gustave going off…he's growing up so _fast_."

Erik almost sighed in relief, stroked her hair gently, waited for her sobs to subside. "He is growing up," he murmured, "but surely that's not enough for you to be so upset?" He pulled back a little, looked at her, kissed her hand again.

"It seemed enough," she said, almost plaintively. "Oh, I'm sorry, Erik. I'm being so silly, but…" She lifted the handkerchief, wiped at her face with sharp, cross movements and he took the cloth from her, gently dried her cheeks.

"I don't like seeing you so upset," he murmured. Her lip trembled, as if she would start crying again, but she took a deep breath, another, and he nodded, stroked her cheek. "Gustave will be fine," he assured her then. "He'll make friends and learn new things…"

"I know," she sighed. "But sometimes it feels as though no time at all has passed since I first held him." She touched her belly then, the rounded swell of new life, and a smile lit up her face. "I'm sorry," she said once again. "I'm being so emotional."

"I'm told it's normal during pregnancy," said Erik dryly, and he rose, picked up her knitting and returned it to her. "I have some letters to write," he said, "but I'll bring them in here." Her smile widened, and Erik went to the music room, found his papers and returned quickly to the warm, pleasant sitting room.

Christine's needles clicked as she worked; Erik sat at the desk, dealt with his letters swiftly and then tried to focus on his music.

But she was so beautiful, sitting by the fire, and the sight was so novel to him that he was drawn back to her again and again, unable to concentrate on the music that usually held his attention.

"What are you making?" he asked at last, and she looked up at him, her needles moving ceaselessly. He could remember when she first leaned to knit, one of many members of the corps de ballet taking instruction from one of the costumers at the Opera Populaire. She'd been a tiny slip of a thing then, not quite ten years old, struggling to find her place in the vast opera house. He'd begun teaching her not long after that, begun to watch over her.

"A cardigan," said Christine, and held it up to show him. Even to his uneducated eye, it was nearly finished.

"It's so small," he murmured, and thought of how fragile the baby would be, if it were truly that small. Tried to think of holding it, but couldn't imagine it, couldn't see how he could hold something so fragile, so delicate.

"She will be small, at first," Christine told him, "although actually I'm making this large. Babies grow very quickly." She seemed to guess at his thoughts, for she smiled, put her knitting down and held a hand out for him. Erik went to her gladly, sat at her feet and touched his hand to her stomach. He couldn't seem to help it, this urge to touch, to make sure his eyes weren't deceiving him.

Christine was here, and the baby was real. And he would learn, he knew, learn how to hold the baby, how to care for it.

Christine resumed her work, and Erik leaned against her legs, gazed into the fire and thought of a baby with dark eyes and soft curls.

* * *

><p>Quick note to say there won't be a chapter as usual tomorrow, because I'm *ahem* going down to London to see Ramin Karimloo in Les Miserables. 3 chapters left, posting will resume on Saturday.<p> 


	22. Chapter 22

Title: Love Will Still Remain

Rating: M

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' or 'Love Never Dies' does not belong to me.

* * *

><p>The marriage was a quiet affair, attended by only a few witnesses. Apart from Gustave, only Madame Giry and Squelch were present, and Christine reflected afterwards that even they had seemed almost unreal as she had said her vows, as Erik slid the wedding ring onto her finger and kissed her as if nobody were watching.<p>

They went back to the house, just the three of them, found Laura in the midst of preparing a celebratory supper. Gustave had homework, went to his room to learn his spellings before the meal was ready, and Christine went to the bedroom to change her dress. She hadn't worn white – it hadn't seemed appropriate, given the child growing within her – but a neat, pretty blue dress that she thought flattered despite her size.

Erik had told her she looked beautiful, had looked at her just as he always had, as though she were the most beautiful thing in creation. In his eyes, she knew, she could have worn anything without changing that perception.

Still, she wanted to change into a more comfortable outfit, wanted to free her hair because the weight of it on her head, and the pins holding it in place, seemed to make her head and neck ache. The further she went into the pregnancy, she reflected, the less comfortable she became, and there were still another three months before the birth.

Erik followed her upstairs, took the pins from her hair and laid them on the dressing table, unbuttoned the dress and kissed her neck, her shoulder, smoothed his hands over the skin revealed as he pushed aside fabric aside.

"My wife," he murmured. "My _wife_." Christine looked up at him in the mirror, smiled a little. There was a hungriness in his expression, a hint of the obsession that had once scared her so much, the possessiveness that she had once fought against.

Erik had changed much in ten years, she knew, but not that much, not enough that today, their wedding day, would not bring those qualities out in him.

But she wasn't scared now, no longer fought. She knew who he was, loved every part of him; and his obsession had faded to a deeper love, his fierce possessiveness was no longer confining. And she had changed too – had grown wiser, older, had seen more of the world, knew that there was no-one she was more suited to being with than Erik. Nobody she loved more than Erik.

"My husband," she said, and she watched as his fingers stroked down her neck, slipped lower; her breath hitched, and she leaned back against him, half wished they had more time before supper. "I love you," she murmured, tilted her face up to receive his kiss. She raised her hand, touched his mask and waited for just a moment, long enough for him to stop her if he wished, and then gently pulled it from his face.

He flinched away from the mirror, retreated a few steps, and Christine put the mask on the dressing table and rose, turned and stepped into his arms.

"My husband," she said again, and stroked her fingers across his cheek. She wouldn't apologise for removing the mask – accepted the need for it, but not here, not in their bedroom. Here she wanted to see all of him, and he seemed to be trying to understand, trying to accept it. "Are you happy, Erik?" she asked softly, and he smiled, the left side of his mouth lifting.

"Do you need to ask?" he returned, and he kissed her again, tangled his hands in her hair as he loved to do. She smiled into it, closed her eyes, leaned against him.

And then she shivered; the fire wasn't lit in the bedroom until the evening, and her dress was half open, baring her skin to the air. Erik pulled away, frowned.

"You should change," he said, and he sat on the bed, watched as she quickly donned a comfortable skirt and blouse. "My wife," he muttered again, and Christine returned to him, kissed him again.

"Yes," she said. "All yours."

"I have a wedding gift for you," Erik said then. "It…isn't finished, but then…" He reached out, touched her stomach, shrugged a little. Christine waited, remembered what Madame Giry had said. "It has more popular appeal than _Don__Juan_," he said, watching her, almost nervous now, as if she would deny it, deny him the chance to hear her sing his music once more. "But then I think I was half-mad when I composed _Don__Juan_."

"An opera," she whispered. "You've written another opera?"

He nodded. "For you," he said, as if it needed clarifying – as if she didn't know that she had long been his muse, his inspiration. It was an honour, to be the object of Erik's genius, but she could admit that it was also a strain. She worried, at times, that she could never measure up to his expectations, his ideals – could remember, as a young girl learning from her Angel of Music, constantly trying to please him.

"What is it about?" she asked, pushing the worry away. But he shook his head, smiled suddenly.

"It's not finished," he said again. "When it's completed, you can have it." She pouted, tried to convince him to tell her, but he shook his head, refused. "Will you sing it?" he asked, and she looked at him, wondered if he really didn't know, couldn't see how much she wanted to sing his music again.

"Do you have to ask?" she said, echoing his earlier words, but he looked at her and she thought, guiltily, of how she had needed persuasion to sing in _Don__Juan_, and then to sing his aria only six months before.

But _Don__Juan_ had been different, she told herself; her trepidation then had been about the plot to capture Erik, about the man himself, not about his music. The music had called to her, called to something deep inside her that she hadn't known existed until she had heard it.

"You know I would sing anything of yours," she said softly. "Anything." She meant more than she said, somehow, and he seemed to understand; he took her hands, pressed a kiss to her finger just below her new wedding ring.

Footsteps hurried down the landing, and the bedroom door was flung open without a knock. Erik flinched, turned so Gustave couldn't see his face, and Christine stilled him with a hand on his shoulder, tried to reassure him silently.

"Gustave, manners," she said, frowning at their son as he stood in the doorway.

"Sorry, Mother," said Gustave, unrepentant, and she shook her head, tried to hide the smile that wanted to emerge. "But supper's ready, Laura sent me to fetch you. And I'm so hungry!"

Christine nodded. "Alright, Gustave, we'll be there in a moment." Gustave nodded, glanced at Erik and then disappeared. Erik rose, crossed to the dressing table, put his mask back into place, and Christine bit her lip, for a moment _hating_ that mask. "He doesn't care, you know," she said quietly. "No more than I do."

Erik said nothing, didn't look at her, and she went to him, clutched at his arm.

"You will believe me," she told him. "Not now, not soon, but one day you'll believe me."

"Oh, Christine," he said, sighing, and he pressed a kiss to her forehead; the leather mask brushed her skin. "I am trying, my dearest Christine," he murmured. "But I have suffered a lifetime of people turning from me."

"Even me," she whispered, and he didn't deny it, but his hands rested on her hips, a gentle reassurance that she had long been forgiven. "I'm sorry," she said again, couldn't stop the apology from leaving her mouth. "I'm so sorry for all the hurt I caused you."

"It's forgotten," said Erik at once, and he took her hand, lifted it to look once more at the ring on her finger. "It's the past. We're starting again now."

"Yes," she said, and she nodded, let his words reassure her. "But Erik…" She hesitated, long enough for him to become concerned, and then she tried to smile, hoped he would accept what she wanted. "Erik, when the baby is born…" He waited, silent, and she gathered her courage, hoped he would understand. "I want her to see you," she told him. "_You_, not just the mask. The mask…it might frighten her, a little. Babies want to see faces."

Erik sighed, let her hand fall. "I suppose she wouldn't know any different," he muttered. "I…I'll try, Christine."

She smiled properly then, nodded. It was enough. She knew it was hard for him, knew she couldn't expect more than this.

"We should go down before Gustave starves to death," Erik said then, and Christine laughed, nodded again.

"I'll just be a moment," she said, "I need to tie my hair back." She turned to the dressing table, picked up a ribbon, but Erik took it from her, slipped it under her mass of curls. His fingers brushed against her neck as he tied the ribbon.

"You're so beautiful," he said once again, and Christine smiled, leaned up for another kiss.

"_Mother!_"

Erik laughed against her mouth, stepped away from her. "He gets it from you," he said, and fled the bedroom before she could respond.

The baby kicked; Christine touched her belly, looked at her ring again, marvelled at what her life had become.

At how happy she was.


	23. Chapter 23

Title: Love Will Still Remain

Rating: M

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' or 'Love Never Dies' does not belong to me.

* * *

><p>"I need more nails, Gustave," said Erik, and didn't bother hiding his smile as Gustave leaped up and ran to the toolbox. It was a sunny spring Saturday afternoon, a week shy of Gustave's birthday, and it had finally been warm and dry enough for Erik to begin work on a treehouse in the garden for Gustave. He'd suggested to Gustave several weeks ago that a particular tree in the garden would be well-suited for such a thing, and the boy's pleased reaction had been well worth the hours it would take to build.<p>

It would be safe, of course – he'd reassured Christine of that, when she'd looked a little doubtful. Everything he built was safe, robust enough to withstand the rigours of a growing boy.

More than one, he thought, because Gustave had made friends, would want them to visit soon enough.

Gustave returned, walking now with a handful of nails, and he reached up, offered them to Erik.

"Thank you," Erik said gravely, and glanced over at Christine. She was sitting close to the house, having tea with Madame Giry. The sun fell across her face, her hair shone brilliantly.

He turned back to the tree, took the nails from Gustave and finished hammering into place the boards that would be footholds for climbing.

"You'll be able to climb up here easily," he said to Gustave. "No, not yet," he added, laughing as Gustave reached for the foothold closest to him, reached out and caught him by the collar. "We've barely begun."

Gustave sighed loudly. "Alright," he said. "What next?"

"Next I'm going up the ladder," said Erik. "And you're staying on the ground." He waited for Gustave to nod agreement, and then he turned to the pile of planks he'd leaned up against the tree. "Do you think you can lift some of these up to me?" he asked.

"I think so," said Gustave, and he tried lifting one of them, heaved it up and over his head. Erik smothered another laugh, put a handful of nails into his pocket and scaled the ladder. The branches of the tree were thick, would easily hold the weight of the treehouse, and he sat astride one of them, leaned down to take the plank from his son and settled it across two branches.

There was so much pleasure to be gained, he had realised, in doing things with Gustave. They had a music lesson several times a week, and Gustave was an attentive pupil, but there were so many other things too. Gustave asked for his help learning his school lessons, sought him out for conversation, shared confidences and worries.

He was, he thought with no little amount of pride, becoming a father more and more with each day.

And soon he would be a father once more. He glanced through the branches of the tree, found Christine again, and smiled to himself. The baby was due in three weeks, so close now, and then he would have another child.

"Hand me one of those thin ones," he said to Gustave. "On the right." Gustave picked up a long, thin piece of wood, held it aloft and narrowly avoided swinging it against Erik's leg.

"Sorry," said Gustave, looking up at him. "That's for the – the frame, right?"

Erik nodded, took the piece of wood. He'd made a plan for the construction, had showed it to Gustave and explained everything, and it pleased him that Gustave had remembered.

"Once I've built the frame and put the floor down, you can come up," he said. Gustave grinned, and Erik set the wood into place, took a nail from his pocket and hammered it into place.

"Will it take long?" Gustave asked, leaning against the ladder, and Erik slid further along the branch, put another nail in the piece of wood.

"Several hours," he said. "It needs to be safe for you," he added, when Gustave looked about to frown. "Your mother would never forgive me if you fell because it wasn't safe." He would never forgive himself, either, but he didn't say so to Gustave.

"Alright," said Gustave, with a long-suffering sigh.

"But you are helping me a great deal," Erik said. "If you weren't passing me the wood, it would take much longer." He sent a quick smile down to his son. "Another of the thin pieces, Gustave, if you will."

Gustave fetched another piece of wood, stretched his arms up, but before Erik could reach for it there came a pained cry from near the house – from Christine.

Erik descended from the tree in moments, strode across the lawn towards her; she was leaning forwards in her chair, hand on her stomach, face pale and mouth tight with pain.

"What is it?" he demanded. "What's wrong?"

"Stop panicking," said Madame Giry, who had risen to her feet. Christine was breathing hard, but the pain seemed to ease, she seemed to regain some composure. "Is that the first, Christine?"

Erik looked between them, confused for a moment, but Christine shook her head, looked up at the other woman.

"Through the morning," she said faintly, "but not badly."

Realisation dawned, and Erik took her hand. "It's early," he muttered, and a hundred thoughts flew through his mind. "She's not due for three weeks," he added, and Christine gave a breathless laugh.

"Well, you can tell her to wait, then," she said. She leaned back in her chair, smiled at him. "I'll be alright," she said, and he wished his worry wasn't so obvious, wished he could be the one to reassure her, but she knew how anxious he was, knew his fears.

"Women give birth every day with no harm to themselves or the children," said Madame Giry briskly. "Help her inside, Erik, and then send for the midwife." She turned to Gustave, and Erik glanced at him as well, saw him watching them with a worried expression.

"Gustave," said Christine, and Gustave approached, bit his lip. "Gustave, it's alright," she told him. "Will you carry the tea things in?" Given a job to do Gustave was happier, and Erik nodded slightly, concentrated on Christine, helped her to her feet.

She gave a pained cry again before they reached the house, had to stop, gripped his arm tightly and Erik bit his tongue hard enough to taste blood, wished he could take the pain from her.

Moments passed and then she began walking again, leaned on him heavily as they climbed the porch steps, entered the house. He didn't think she should try the stairs, but reckoned without her stubbornness, trailed behind her as she ascended, clinging to the banister.

"I won't get into bed," she told him, when they reached the bedroom. "Not yet."

"But you should –"

"It could be hours," said Christine, shaking her head. She sat down on the edge of the bed, gripped the bedclothes, and he stood before her, watched helplessly as she breathed through another contraction. "Or maybe not," she had to admit. "The contractions are quite close."

"You should have told me," he said, but without real force. She'd been quiet that morning, pale, but she hadn't slept well and he'd assumed she'd tell him if something was wrong.

"I might have been wrong," Christine said, and she reached to unbutton her blouse; Erik intercepted her, pushed her hands away gently and did it for her. He fetched her a nightgown and her dressing robe, helped her into it.

"I'll send Laura for the midwife," he told her then. "Do you need anything? Can I get you anything?"

She smiled wearily at him, shook her head. "No, my love. Thank you." He leaned down, kissed her forehead, left the room. Madame Giry was climbing the stairs, a pile of clean linens under her arm.

"Don't panic," she advised him again, pausing to give him a critical look.

"It's early," he reminded her. "That could mean –"

"Absolutely nothing, and three weeks is nothing to cry about," she said, impatient with his insecurities, as she always was. "It will likely be small but healthy. Now go and send for the midwife, and for goodness sake pull yourself together." She had the last word, swept into the bedroom and closed the door firmly. Erik shook his head, twisted his mouth, went down the stairs.

Laura met him at the kitchen doorway, wiping her hands on her apron.

"Would you like me to go, sir?" she asked him. "I know where the midwife lives."

Erik nodded at once, relieved; he didn't want to leave Christine, although he suspected there was little he could do, and the midwife lived a good twenty minutes' walk away – if she was even at home, which was not guaranteed.

"Thank you, yes," he said.

"Madame Giry told me to put the kettle on for hot water," Laura added. "I'll just run and get my cap and shawl, sir, then I'll go." He nodded again, stood aside to let her pass.

"Is she going to be alright?" Gustave asked him then. He was standing by the kitchen table, tracing patterns on the wood with one finger. "She – she isn't going to…" He trailed off, uncertain, and Erik could see his fear he was trying so hard to hide, stepped towards him, caught him up in an embrace.

"She won't die," he said, forced a reassurance that he didn't, couldn't, feel himself, and Gustave clung to him for a moment, wrapped his small arms around Erik, pressed his face against Erik's chest.

The kettle boiled; Gustave detached himself unwillingly.

"Can I do anything?" he asked, and Erik shook his head, smiled faintly.

"I don't think so," he said. "I need to take the kettle upstairs." He tried to think of something for Gustave to occupy himself with, some way for him to keep busy. "You haven't done your practice today," he said at last. "Why don't you go to the music room?" Gustave nodded agreement, left the kitchen, and Erik took the kettle off the stove, went upstairs again.

Christine was still sitting on the bed, watching as Madame Giry laid a fire in the grate.

"Hot water," Erik said, and Madame Giry nodded, gestured for him to put the kettle down on the hearth. "Laura's gone for the midwife." He sat on the bed next to Christine, took her hand. She leaned against him, silent, rested her head against his shoulder.

"I don't think it will be long," said Madame Giry then, turning around to look at them. "The contractions are close."

"I'll be glad if it is," said Christine, and she looked up at Erik, tried to smile. "Gustave took over a day to be born," she told him, and Erik nodded, tried to speak but found himself without words. Her grip on his hand tightened, almost unbearably tight, as another contraction hit her, and she moaned, closed her eyes.

"I need to stand up," she said, when at last the contraction passed. "I need…I need to move. Erik, help me?"

"Of course," he said, and rose, let her use him to lever herself up. She leaned on him, he steadied her as she took slow steps about the room, to the window, back to the bed, following the same path over and over, pausing only when another contraction hit.

"They're getting closer," said Madame Giry. "You should lie down soon, Christine." She checked her watch, pursed her lips, and Erik glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece, tried to remember when Laura had set off for the midwife, tried to work out when she would be back – if she had found the midwife at home.

Christine cried out again, almost stumbled.

"Lie down, Christine," Erik urged her, and she nodded weakly, let him help her back to the bed; he pushed the blankets aside, found pillows to help her be as comfortable as possible.

He hated this, had known he would hate it, would always hate being helpless when it came to Christine. And there was nothing he could do to ease this, nothing he could do to help her or hasten the birth. He could only watch, and wait, and hope that the child's early birth meant nothing ill for either of them.

And then the door was opened, the midwife came in – stout and matronly, Christine had met with Mrs Johnson a few weeks before, had seemed happy. Erik hadn't met her, but he'd checked her credentials, had made sure she was more than good enough to help Christine through the birth.

"Well, dearie, how are we doing?" she said, bustling over to the bed, touching Christine's forehead, pushing the blankets further away from her. "You're not due yet, are you? Still, sometimes those that come out early cry the loudest." She looked at Madame Giry, raised an eyebrow. "You're her mother? Good, you can help. And you!" She turned to Erik, smiled broadly. "Out you go. You've no place in here."

"I won't –" Erik began to protest, but Madame Giry cleared her throat, shook her head, and somehow Erik found himself ejected from his own bedroom before he could finish speaking.

Gustave was sitting at the top of the stairs, hugging his knees, and Erik joined him, listened to Christine's pained cries and waited.

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><p>One chapter to go!<p> 


	24. Chapter 24

Title: Love Will Still Remain

Rating: M

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' or 'Love Never Dies' does not belong to me.

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><p>Christine was so very tired when at last the baby was born, just as the clock chimed six o'clock. She collapsed back against the pillows, felt as though she could sleep for days, waited to hear the first cries of her child.<p>

They came, pitiful wailings that grew louder with every passing moment.

"It's a girl," said the midwife, and she disappeared from view for a moment. "I'm just washing her, dearie," she called, and Christine nodded wearily. Madame Giry brought a basin of water, towels, washed her up and helped her into a clean nightgown, and Christine was too tired to protest, too tired to do anything but let her do it.

"She's healthy and whole," Madame Giry told her in a low voice. "No marks, no scarring anywhere."

"Thank you," Christine murmured. It didn't matter to her, truly it didn't, but she knew Erik would be relieved, even if he wouldn't say so. "I want to hold her."

"Right here, dearie," said Mrs Johnson. "Help her sit up, Madame – use those pillows. That's right." Madame Giry helped her into a more upright position, and Mrs Johnson handed her the baby, wrapped up in blankets.

She was so small, Christine thought wonderingly. Of course all babies were small to begin with, but she was smaller than Gustave had been – so small, so delicate, tiny fingers and toes, soft dark hairs like down on her head.

"Hello," she whispered. "Hello, my darling."

"I'll tidy up," said Mrs Johnson, "and then I'll let your husband in."

"No, please, he can come in now," said Christine, glancing up only briefly from the tiny baby in her arms. The room was stuffy, she felt covered in sweat despite Madame Giry's efforts to clean her, but she wanted Erik, wanted him to be with her, to see the child they had created.

She couldn't quite think how he'd managed to restrain himself from being in the room, how Madame Giry and Mrs Johnson had kept him out, but in a way she was glad of it. She knew how difficult it would have been for him to see her in such pain, how helpless he would have felt.

"Don't argue with her," said Madame Giry to Mrs Johnson. "She's too stubborn." She crossed to the window, threw it open, and Mrs Johnson went to the door.

"Come in," she said, "come in. You've got a beautiful baby girl."

Erik entered, paused a few feet from the bed, and Christine looked up at him, smiled wearily. He looked dishevelled, shirt sleeves rolled up and waistcoat open, and he stared at her, stared at the baby in her arms as if he was afraid to come closer.

"Erik," she said softly, and she rearranged the baby, reached out a hand for him. "Come and see her, Erik." He approached, cautious, sat on the edge of the bed and she tried to pull him closer, couldn't quite manage it but he nodded, came closer still.

"They're both doing well," said Mrs Johnson, pausing with an armful of soiled linen. "Just tired. Don't talk long, now." She left the room, and Madame Giry went as well, allowed them some time together.

"Do you want to hold her?" Christine asked, but Erik shook his head. He stretched out a hand, moved the blanket aside so he could see the baby properly, and his breath escaped him in a long sigh. Christine watched as he traced her features, forefinger moved across her forehead, down her nose, touching her tiny mouth.

"She's perfect," he murmured. "She's…she's beautiful." He smiled then, a slow smile, looked at Christine and pushed her sweaty hair away from her face. "Just like you."

Christine almost laughed, leaned her head back against the pillows. "Only you," she said, "could say that to me right now." She was flushed and sticky, exhausted from the birth, and her hair hung in tangles across her shoulders.

Erik leaned forwards, kissed her. "Beautiful," he insisted. "And she's – she's so…"

"She is," Christine agreed, knowing what he meant, knowing the words he couldn't find. They looked at her, at this tiny doll-like creature, their daughter. "Hold her, Erik," Christine urged. "Hold your daughter." And she passed the baby over to him, made sure he was holding her properly, relaxed back into the bed, watched as Erik slowly became more comfortable holding their daughter.

"She doesn't have a name," said Erik at last. "We didn't – we've never talked about names." He looked up at her; she wished the mask was gone, wished he'd remove it so she could see him properly, but knew he'd never agree to it while Mrs Johnson and Madame Giry were still here. "She needs a name," he said, when she didn't speak.

"I know," she said. "It was easy with Gustave." He was, of course, named for her father – she'd insisted on it – and Erik nodded, frowned a little as he thought. "We don't have to decide right away," she told him. "There's no hurry, Erik."

"No," he murmured, "no, I suppose not." He turned back to the child in his arms; she was starting to cry, one arm emerged from the blankets and waved about. "What – what do I do?" he asked, a little frantic, and Christine smiled, reached out to take her back.

"She's hungry," she said, and unbuttoned her nightgown, felt Erik watching her as she guided the baby's mouth to her breast. "There, now," she cooed, as her daughter latched on, began to suck. "That's better."

"Your mother's name was Sylvia, wasn't it?" Erik asked then, abrupt, and Christine glanced up at him, nodded. She could barely remember her mother, had more memories of her father speaking, reverently, of Sylvia Daaé. "What about calling her that?"

Christine looked down at her daughter, the tiny child feeding from her. "Sylvia," she murmured. "Yes. Yes, I like that."

Mrs Johnson came back in then, looked at them and nodded approvingly. "That's right," she said. "A feed and then she can sleep. Your young lad wants to see her, but that can wait, I think. You need a nice hot bath and an early night, dearie."

"I'll fetch the cot," said Erik, and Christine watched as he left, returned her gaze to Sylvia. She would need to sleep close for at least the first few weeks, but the cot had been set up in one of the other bedrooms, the room that would be the nursery, not needed – or so they'd thought – for another three weeks.

"I'll run you a bath, dearie, and then I'd better go," said Mrs Johnson then. "I've got another one due any day, I need to check on her. I'll be back in a few days."

"Thank you, Mrs Johnson," said Christine, and the midwife nodded, went through to the bathroom and a moment later Christine could hear the water running.

Erik returned, carrying the cot easily, and he set it by the dressing table, returned to her side. Sylvia had finished, her eyes were closing, and he took her gently, carefully – so carefully, as if he were afraid he would drop her – and placed her in the cot.

"Alright, then, that's me done," Mrs Johnson said, bustling back into the room. "Stay in bed after your bath, then up and about tomorrow, that's the best thing." She turned to Erik, nodded at him. "Call for me if she needs anything, but she should be fine," she said, and disappeared from the room.

"Madame Giry will see her out," said Christine, didn't wait for Erik to agree, sat up and shook her hair back. "Let Gustave in before I bathe," she requested. "I don't want him to be stuck out there waiting."

Erik's mouth twitched into a smile, and she couldn't help smiling back. "Mrs Johnson said to wait," he pointed out, but he went to the door, opened it again. "Gustave," he called, and checked him when Gustave would have run into the room. "Quietly," Erik instructed him. "She's sleeping."

Christine watched, entranced, as Gustave tried to mimic Erik's silent footsteps, followed his father to the cot and peered in at the sleeping baby.

"Her name is Sylvia," she said, and Gustave looked up at her, his smile bright and brilliant. "Do you like her, Gustave?"

"I think so," Gustave answered, and Christine smothered a laugh in her hand, glanced at Erik and found him similarly afflicted. "Are you very tired, Mother?" Gustave asked then. "Laura's made you a soup, shall I bring some up?"

"Not yet, darling," she said. She would feel better after a bath, more able to eat, although she felt almost as though she might fall asleep in the bath. Erik wouldn't let her, she knew, and looked at him, found him watching her tenderly.

"Time to go now, Gustave," Erik murmured. "Your mother needs to rest."

But Gustave came over to the bed, kissed her cheek. "May I come back before bedtime, Mother?" he asked. "To say goodnight."

"Of course," said Christine, ignoring Erik's disapproval, and she watched as Gustave left, as Erik shut the door after him. "Help me to the bath?" she asked, swung her legs from the bed and winced as sore muscles protested. "Oh Erik," she said, and looked up at him, blinked away sudden tears. "Erik, could you ever have imagined?"

"No," he said slowly, thoughtfully, "I never imagined this. But I dreamed, Christine."

And he kissed her, took her to the bathroom, helped her into the warm water and stayed with her to make sure she didn't fall asleep.

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><p>And done!<p>

Thanks to my lovely beta-reader and hand-holder Sam, without whom this fic would never have been finished - thank you for indulging me, Sam :D

And thank you to everyone who's read and reviewed. I'm pleased to see I've semi-converted a few of you :P

I've just finished a PotO-era fic, which will be beta'd over Christmas and then will be posted here. Hope to see some of you there :)


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